The Project Gutenberg eBook of The well-fed birds 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 well-fed birds Author: Richard Rein Smith Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller Release date: November 11, 2026 [eBook #79977] Language: English Original publication: Holyoke, Mass.: Headline Publications, Inc., 1957 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79977 Credits: Tom Trussel - Stories of Futures Past (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Luminist Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL-FED BIRDS *** The Well-Fed Birds by Richard R. Smith =The Martian science was advanced and the Martians had a wonderful machine. It solved every problem for the planet-stranded earthmen--every problem, except one.= They stacked their supplies near the canal and then, as if a single person with a single thought, they sat on the sand and watched their ship. From that distance, the _Starmaster_ appeared intact although it was actually badly damaged and the engine room hurled deadly radioactive rays for a radius of a mile. “The first landing on Mars,” Marvin commented bitterly, “a flop!” “A complete flop,” Scott echoed. Houghton was the optimist of the group. During the long voyage from Earth he had been liberal with optimistic quotations and now he offered another well-worn phrase: “It could have been worse.” His lean face paled visibly at the resultant expressions and he explained defensively, “Look at the supplies we salvaged.” He waved a slender hand at the items as if his friends had forgotten them. “Food rations, weapons, clothes, pre-fab shelters--” “What are you, a supply clerk? We know what we got!” He closed his mouth with a firmness that indicated it would stay closed for awhile. Scott thrust his hand into the red sand, lifted a handful before his eyes and let it trickle between his fingers. “Martian soil,” he murmured. “Harry brought us all the way from Earth and never lived to touch it.” “It was a good landing,” Marvin complimented the dead pilot. “A good landing, but the ship wasn’t good enough ... wasn’t strong enough. Next time, they’ll build the ship better.” Scott rose abruptly. “Let’s get to work. The next ship won’t land until three years from now and we’ve got a lot of things to do.” “_Work?_” Marvin’s dark features twisted with sardonic amusement. “What work have we got to do?” He waved an arm at the barren terrain. “We’ve done our job. We’ve reached Mars. That’s all they care about back on Earth--they don’t care what sort of planet Mars is; they don’t care if we explore or sit here and die. They just wanted us to be alive when we reached here. They--” Scott turned and walked toward the canal. Houghton hesitated briefly, then followed. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked when he reached Scott’s side. “The medics gave him a high stability rating--one of the highest.” “He’s probably suffering from shock. He’ll snap out of it.” * * * * * They stopped at the edge of the canal and stared thoughtfully at the muddy water hundreds of feet below. Beneath their feet, the stone that formed the top tier of the canal wall was covered with deep grooves carved by centuries of relentless wind, rain and sand. For several minutes, they studied the canal, the silence broken only by the sluggish water as it echoed feebly between the ancient walls. “I wonder where the Martians are who made this.” Scott grunted. “I wonder _how_ they made it. Each stone on the walls must weigh tons and--” A shrill whistling sound interrupted him, and they turned to see a glittering object fall from the sky and land near their supplies. When they returned, they found Marvin gesturing frantically at a strange creature. Several yards to one side, a featureless metal globe glistened in the faint sunlight. The Martian did not correspond with Scott’s preconceptions: it stood on three stalk-like legs, its body was no larger than a basket ball and the thin tentacles fluttered weakly as if a strong wind would break them. There were no eyes, mouth or nose, but clusters of antennae were directed toward them and Scott felt as if the Martian had a thousand eyes that were watching his every movement. “Welcome,” a voice whispered in his mind. When he looked at the others, he knew by their expressions that they had also received the telepathic message. He concentrated on the thought, “We are from Earth; we come as friends.” The Martian answered, “I also come as a friend and anxious to help you in any way within my power.” “Our ship is badly damaged. Is there anything you can--” “I am sorry,” the alien replied. “There is nothing I can do that will repair your space vessel. Our scientists have not explored the problems of interplanetary travel.” A soft breeze whispered over the red desert while the three Earthmen stared thoughtfully at the Martian. “_I would like to exchange knowledge with you._” It was a concept transmitted from the Martian’s mind, and for the first time, Scott realized that the alien had spoken to them before by telepathy but with English sentences. Somehow, unknown to them, it had searched their minds and learned their language! Immediately after he replied affirmatively, he received a flood of mental images. He closed his eyes and saw Mars when it was a young planet, green and filled with energetic life. He saw great Martian cities like clusters of jewels reaching toward the sky and millions of Martians who lived in a pattern similar to that of Earthmen. As the centuries passed, the cities slowly dwindled in size, the green fields became barren plains and the populations decreased after repeated wars, epidemics and famines. The last image depicted Mars in its present state: a dying planet inhabited by only a few dozen members of a once great race. Next, delicate mental tendrils probed his mind. Like instruments wielded by an expert surgeon, they skimmed lightly over a multitude of irrelevant facts, located and extracted essential information concerning Earth. When the Martian was satisfied, Scott glanced at his watch. The exchange of background had taken two hours ... two hours that seemed like seconds. “I cannot repair your ship,” the Martian stated abruptly, “but there is another way in which I can help you--” He gestured with a tentacle and a small angular machine appeared by his side. “This machine was developed centuries ago by our scientists and is perhaps their greatest achievement. It can convert matter into kinetic energy and then back to matter with different shapes and substances.” He pressed a lever on the machine and as they watched in fascination, the desert sands before them moved violently as if driven by a dozen invisible bulldozers. In a few minutes, a twelve-foot mound was formed. The Martian pointed at Scott. “Think of what you desire most, and the machine will rearrange the atoms in the sand.” * * * * * Scott almost choked on his repressed laughter, but as instructed, he closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of Mary and Johnny, a six-room stucco house and a grey Chevrolet. When he opened his eyes, he still saw the stucco house encircled by the white picket fence. On the driveway was a familiar grey Chevrolet.... The front door opened. Mary held Johnny in one arm and waved at him with the other. He went toward the house, not running or even walking fast, but stumbling slowly like a man in a dream. He walked up the sidewalk, the sound of his boots on the concrete ringing in his ears, the odor of fried chicken from the kitchen teasing his stunned senses. _If this is a dream_, he thought, _it’s damned realistic!_ His wife set Johnny on the ground and was suddenly in his arms. Her lips were soft and warm, and he felt her tears as they touched his cheeks. His mind screamed, _It’s real! She’s real!_ but, he asked the inevitable question, “Is it really you, Mary?” She pulled away from him and searched his eyes. “Of course it’s me.” He glanced uneasily over his shoulder. Marvin and Houghton were watching him, their jaws sagging ludicrously. The Martian waved several tentacles at him--probably intended as a friendly gesture but in the now bizarre surroundings, it seemed a weird, frightening gesture from an unreal creature. “Let’s go inside.” Once inside the house with the familiar blond mahogany furniture around him, it was hard to believe that he wasn’t in his house on Gerald street in Chicago. _A duplicate house, a duplicate wife_, he thought wildly. _None of it is real!_ “Supper’s ready,” Mary said. “We’ve been waiting.” She was like he remembered: Her hair as dark as the darkest night, her soft, oval face accentuated by her twinkling eyes and crimson mouth. “I’m not hungry.” He went to the kitchen, reached inside the cabinet above the refrigerator and found the fifth he had left there. “You go ahead and eat.” She looked at the bottle and frowned, her lips quickly forming a firm line as if to keep from trembling. He ignored the expression. If she was a figment of his imagination or a transformed pile of sand, she had no right to condemn his behavior. He settled in a chair in the living room and took a long drink from the bottle. The liquor burned his throat and stomach, but he soon felt muscles relax throughout his body. * * * * * He awoke the next morning with a trip hammer pounding in his skull and a dozen butterflies playing in his stomach. Resisting an impulse to wake his wife and see if she was as real as she had been the night before, he remained still and listened. The house was realistic in every detail, but as he listened, he could not hear the familiar sounds of Gerald Street. There were no sounds of traffic, distant radios, birds and dogs. Only silence. He rose quietly and went to the living room where he opened the front door with trembling fingers. A hundred yards to one side, a tremendous castle-like structure towered above his stucco house. An equal distance to the other side, a weird conglomeration sparkled in the sunlight. When he reached the castle, he paused to touch one of the huge stones in a wall. It was rough and firm beneath his fingers--as real as anything he had ever sensed in his life. He wandered through a labyrinth of rooms, corridors and winding stairs and was awed by the brilliant tapestries, statues and luxurious furnishings. He didn’t know who had obtained the castle from the Martian’s scientific marvel but whoever it was, he had made him seem a piker by requesting a six-room house! He eventually found Marvin in a tremendous room sitting before an ebony table covered with various foods and liquors. Perched on billowy cushions on either side, a dozen half-naked women watched him like animals eager to pounce on a willing prey. Marvin’s deepset eyes widened at the sight of Scott and he self-consciously stroked his growth of beard. “Hi! I was just thinking about you. I intended to visit you last night but I--uh, somehow, I never got around to it.” “I wonder why,” Scott replied and grinned at the dark-skinned women who surveyed him coldly as if he were an infidel in a holy place. Marvin gestured and the women departed with a flurry of diaphanous skirts. He sat on a pillow beside Marvin and sampled a bottle of wine. It formed a comforting burst of warmness in his stomach and he reflected that this situation could easily turn him into a drunkard. “Help yourself,” Marvin offered. “Some life, huh? Women, wine, song. Everything a man could want, and all from a handful of sand.” He chuckled, his eyes wild as he surveyed the luxurious room. “That crazy Martian. That stupid, crazy little Martian gave me all this!” * * * * * Without warning, Scott seized his shoulder and expertly twisted certain ligaments. Marvin winced with pain and pulled away. “What’s the big idea?” “I was trying to sober you up a little.” He removed a cigar from his multi-hued tunic and lit it carefully. “I’m sober.” Scott rose and paced the floor nervously. “Listen. For a few minutes, forget--” He waved an arm in a circle. “--all this. _Think_ and tell me: why should a stranger do this for us?” He paused, and when Marvin didn’t answer, continued, “It must be a trap. Can you understand that? The Martians are probably afraid we’ll exploit their planet and this _must_ be some sort of fancy, gold-plated booby-trap!” Marvin grinned foolishly. “How?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe the Martian hypnotised us. Maybe we’re actually on the desert starving to death and dreaming this. Maybe--” He was interrupted by Marvin’s raucous laughter. “I knew it. _I knew it!_” “Knew what?” “You’re a worry-wart. A damned, incurable worry-wart! All the time during the voyage, you had something to worry about. Sometimes you’d tell us what it was and sometimes you’d keep it to yourself. But, even when you kept quiet, I knew you were worrying.” He slapped the table, and the sharp sound echoed through the room. “Here we are ... on Mars ... safe and sound. We stumble on a good deal. A super-duper civilization with super-duper hospitality and you look for a flaw, _a gimmick!_” “I--” Marvin leaped to his feet, his face flushed and his eyes like cold stones. “Get out of here.” “But--” Marvin screamed, and two men with gleaming swords entered the room. “_Get out of here!_” The swords looked real enough so he left quickly. * * * * * Entering Houghton’s private world was like stepping into a kaleidoscopic abstract painting. A smooth expanse of glittering marble stretched as far as he could see in every direction. Tall, colorful plants set in the smooth surface produced exotic odors and music that drifted lazily on gentle breezes. Sparkling waterfalls fell from the empty air and disappeared into nothingness while angular statues of apparently meaningless but symmetrical forms pulsed with varicolored lights. It was fully two hours before he spotted Houghton wandering aimlessly among his new possessions. “Scott!” Houghton ran to meet him and shook his hand warmly. “How do you like my new world?” he asked, his face glowing with pride as he looked at their surroundings. “It’s the kind of place I’ve dreamed of. Different and perfect. There’s no flaws here, Scott. No crime, no ugly noises, no conflict, no filth. Only beauty and peace. “How do you like it?” he repeated. “Nice. Very nice. You’re right, it is peaceful here.” He walked a short distance and realized that even their footsteps were silent. “I just saw Marvin,” he blurted. “I tried to explain to him, but he couldn’t understand. Can you understand that there must be a gimmick in this set-up?” “Gimmick?” Houghton pursed his lips and shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I think the Martians are tremendously more advanced in certain sciences than we are. The machine that makes all this possible is as simple to them as a television set is to us. Giving us all this is probably equivalent to one of us giving an African aborigine a room in a fancy hotel....” He paused abruptly, his eyes widening and wrinkles forming in his forehead. “You think this is some sort of trap, don’t you?” Scott shrugged his shoulders. “It must be. Why would an alien--” Houghton turned and walked away. With a sinking sensation, Scott realized he had accomplished nothing. Both were too content with their new toys to even _consider_ his viewpoint. And now, what was he supposed to do? Walk out on the desert by himself? Survival on a strange planet required teamwork. He might survive physically ... but mentally? He knew he wasn’t built for endless days and nights of solitude.... * * * * * For nine months, Scott lived peacefully with his artificial wife and son. At times he even forgot that his house was situated on an arid desert. Occasionally he visited Marvin or Houghton, but they were strained, brief visits born from curiosity rather than a desire for companionship. Eventually he was convinced that it _wasn’t_ a trap and that he would continue a fairly normal life for years with a wife and son and house that were as real as himself. And then, shortly after his change of mind, he awoke one morning and felt sand beneath his body. He leaped to his feet like a poised steel spring that someone had triggered. Houghton and Marvin stood nearby, their faces pale and worried. He opened his mouth to shout, _Where’s the Martian? What happened?_ and then hesitated when he noticed their expressions. They didn’t know.... They examined their supplies and discovered to their dismay that the food rations had rotted, the weapons and other machinery had rusted beyond repair during the months of exposure to sand, sun, wind and rain. “The seed!” Houghton exclaimed after opening a package. “The seed’s in perfect shape. We can plant--” “And what will you eat while you’re waiting for the seed to produce food _if_ you find fertile land?” Scott asked as he gingerly opened an odorous package of spoiled rations. They speculated for hours: Had the Martian died? Had he moved to another location and forgotten them? Had he purposefully left them stranded with useless supplies? “My wife once fed some birds,” Scott said tonelessly, his eyes blank as if seeing something invisible to the others. “She fed them every day from the day they were pushed out of the nest. When we returned from our vacation, we found the birds in our back yard ... dead. They’d been fed so much, they hadn’t developed their natural instinct and learned how to find food.” Marvin screamed, “_You’re crazy! Why would the Martian do that to us?_” Scott shrugged his shoulders. “How would I know? Maybe the Martian considered us invaders, trespassers. Maybe the Martians did away with their weapons after their last war. Maybe the only way they could kill us was with _kindness_.” Their laughter seemed a small, lost thing on the vast desert. “He’ll come back. You’ll see.” They waited. They waited day after day, while the feeble sun gently burned their faces, the coldness at night tore at their flesh and the emptiness in their stomachs grew.... THE END Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Super-Science Fiction, June 1957 (Vol. 1, No. 4). 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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