A Harvest of Hoodwinks, page 8
"How come you drank the water?" Trevis said.
"He asked me to," Ritchie said sleepily. "He asked if the water had poison in it, and I said water isn't poison. Lots of things are poison… but water isn't. We drink water all the time, I told him."
Trevis took a last look down into the pit before turning toward home. The Sporg had rolled away from the radio. He lay still on his stomach, arms and legs akimbo.
"You're a hero, Ritchie," he said. His throat was beginning to choke up.
"I'm just… tired," Ritchie whispered. His body on Trevis's back suddenly became heavier.
Slowly on the path through the woods they went, the tears streaming down Trevis's cheeks. "Damn. Damn," he sobbed. "Damn the Sporgs… and the poison in Forest Stream… and the purple elephants… and the radio." It was the radio that would have told its faraway listeners that Earth water could be drunk by humans but not Sporgs.
"That was the point of it, Mom…" he said through his tears. "Dad, Mom, you understand… don't you, Mom?… Mommy!" He wanted to run now, all the way home, but he would not let himself. He was carrying a hero, and that demanded dignity.
Another examination of "childlike innocence," this story asks: Can the hoodwinker be excused if at the beginning he wasn't aware he was hoodwinking? In Robert's defense, he had no way of knowing the professors were wrong about his genius—not until Ellsworth Scroggle, anyway—and by then he was firmly committed to the idea. It might be pointed out, however, that Robert's ploy with the boy Harold showed his true character early in his career.
The reader, who as always must judge for himself, should be appraised of but one fact: Though the hero (or villain) of this tale takes his name from his author, the following is in no way autobiographical.
ROLLING ROBERT
Once upon a time a boy named Robert was born with a little round bump thing on his elbow.
Now, hardly anybody noticed the bump thing right away. It wasn't long, though, before you had to notice, even if you were too polite to say anything, which most folks were at first. You couldn't help but notice. The bump thing was growing. The rest of Robert wasn't.
Day after day Robert's Ma would force food down his tiny throat. Week after week, month after month, she watched anxiously for his legs to get longer and the rest of her son to get big like the other kids in the neighborhood. But no improvement, no growth, except for the bump thing which got to be the size of a golf ball, then the size of a tomato, then…
It was six days after Robert's fourth birthday that the ball sucked him in.
Ma of course got worried. And she got mad at Pa, who drank a lot and laughed at Robert. But Robert could still eat, since he had an opening for food.
For a mental picture of Robert, think of a jack-o'-lantern. Imagine it all white with small blue eyes-Robert took after Ma that way; "He's got my eyes," she'd say—and a little mouth and two small holes above the mouth for breathing.
Robert.
Robert had brains, too. Ma could tell that by the way he'd roll himself over to the radio set and turn it on with his mouth. He bounced to the music. Ma was happy Robert had brains. She wished they were rich enough to have a TV for Robert. She was mad at Pa because he wouldn't work and drank a lot and kept saying that Robert's being how he was saved a lot of money on clothes and things.
When it got cold, Ma would keep Robert nice and warm in Pa's bowling bag. Once Pa took Robert to the bowling alley by mistake. There wasn't much he- could do except to use Robert. The team was counting on Pa.
When Robert was five, and about as big as a medicine ball, Ma wanted him to go to school like other boys. After all, Robert was smart. He could talk. And bounce to the music on the radio.
Trouble was, Robert couldn't travel very fast, rolling by himself. So, in order not to be late for school which was six blocks away, he enlisted the aid of a strong eighth-grader named Harold. After a while the neighbors got used to having the kids stop all the cars at side streets while mighty Harold heaved Robert to school. With practice Harold got so he could do it in one heave.
Naturally, Robert was worried when the time approached for Harold to pass on to high school, which was across town. Training a new hurler would be both time-consuming and painful. Robert solved the problem by coaching Harold for his end-of-year exams. Harold flunked and remained to be with Robert for another year. At least, that was the way it looked. Something happened that changed things.
The big city newspapers got hold of Robert's story. The newspaper in Robert's town was surprised at the fuss the big city papers made. After all, Robert wasn't news. He'd been around a long time.
It was Robert's teacher that drew the national attention to him. She submitted to a scholarly journal an article called "The Well-Rounded Child."
After Robert had made headlines for a couple of days, a group of university professors visited Ma and Pa.
They wanted to borrow Robert for a while, they said.
Pa at first wasn't willing. Robert had been improving Pa's bowling average. But Ma insisted. "To think," she told Pa, "he'll be getting a college education at such an early age."
At the university the professors studied Robert. It was the way they talked about him that gave him the idea of taking over. The world.
"A mutation," said one.
"A totally new organism," said another.
"The next step in man's evolution," said the most respected of all, who poked Robert in the eye with a pointer.
The others listened eagerly as the learned man continued: "The next step. The perfect shape: a sphere. Note the complete absence of any hampering appendages to the body. No doubt his brain is far superior to an ordinary human's."
A superior brain, thought Robert. Why, I bet that's so.
As a matter of fact, it wasn't so. But Robert believed it was. And after much testing so did the professors.
It was easy. All Robert did was answer their questions as best as he could. The professors did the rest. Example:
"Tell us, Robert, what is the shape of the Earth?"
"Flat." Robert thought it was.
"Flat?" said two of the professors, astonished.
"Flat, gentlemen," said the professor most respected among them. "Obviously, this advanced creature knows something we do not. After all, with relativity, warp and whatnot entering the picture it seems only logical that the Earth could be flat."
So, after a short discussion, they resolved that the Earth was flat because Robert said it was.
In other sessions they resolved that two plus two equals three, that two plus three equals three as well, that litmus paper is harder than structural steel, and that Shakespeare's works were written by Queen Elizabeth. Robert said so.
This display of advanced learning had two effects: First, Robert believed he was supplying the correct answers—he believed himself a genius.
Second, the professors were becoming attached followers of Robert. Disciples, they were. And Robert sensed that this was just the beginning. With this small nucleus, he could begin to make an impression on other leaders, political and military as well as intellectual. And then, when he had enough strength, he could fust take over. He wasn't too sure of the mechanics of the thing, but surely a person of his mental caliber would find a way.
Unfortunately, Robert didn't take Ellsworth Scroggle into account.
Ellsworth Scroggle was an eleven-year-old genius who became the talk of the world when he developed a single potion that could cure any disease known to man. The basic ingredient in this cure-all was dry vermouth. The professors decided that an intellectual combat between the two youths might be interesting to observe. Ellsworth was not pleased that a new series of experiments with sloe gin had to be interrupted so he could come and debate with Robert, but his curiosity had been aroused.
He certainly was not pleased when Robert won all the debates—at least by the decisions of the professors. Robert was a dunce and Ellsworth knew it. And suddenly Robert realized he was a dunce. He also realized that Ellsworth knew it. Therefore, reasoned Robert, Ellsworth would have to be liquidated.
Oddly enough, Ellsworth had come to a similar conclusion about Robert. For Ellsworth had seen the power
Robert had gained over the professors, and he could tell by something in Robert's eyes that this power would never be enough. Ellsworth already looked upon himself as the savior of civilization. He liked the image.
And so, one day when the two debaters were left together—the professors had rushed to the university library to check some obscure fact in Hittite history-Ellsworth slapped Robert with a glove.
"On behalf of the human race I hereby challenge you to mortal combat," Ellsworth said solemnly.
Robert bit Ellsworth's thumb, signifying acceptance of the challenge.
They prepared for the battle which was to take place the next night. Ellsworth carefully chose his weapons. Robert practiced rolling and bouncing and dreamed of the type of crown he'd wear as King of the World.
On the appointed night Ellsworth got rid of the professors. He told them that the sun could be seen at mid-might if one stood at a certain spot four hundred miles away from the campus.
At eight o'clock the combatants faced each other in the university's chemistry lab.
Robert bounced menacingly and surveyed Ellsworth's weapons—a strange assortment. Strapped on his back was a tank, like skin divers use. Ellsworth held the hose and mouthpiece in his left hand, leaving his right hand free. In his mouth dangled the end of a long piece of adhesive tape.
Neither spoke, each circling around the lab, each looking for an opening.
Ellsworth took the first offensive by heaving a Bunsen burner, which Robert dodged easily.
They continued to move around the edge of the walls, the distance between them closing ever so slowly.
Then, with a sudden thrust, Robert bounced off the wall to his rear and shot across the room, knocking Ells-worth sprawling to the floor. Robert quickly bounced upwards, came down and darted up again, trying to gain momentum for one good crushing blow.
Up and down and up goes Robert, while Ellsworth springs to his feet and scurries to a corner.
Up and down and up, at each bounce controlling the angle of deflection; then bam, he hits the ceilirig and is thrust to the floor like a cannon shot. Now the momentum is right, thinks Robert. Now goodbye to Ellsworth Scroggle.
Up bam down bam up. Robert stalks Ellsworth who runs from corner to corner, upsetting tables and crushing glass under his feet.
It was sudden when it happened.
On one of Robert's upshots, Ellsworth quickly computed where his opponent would land after bouncing from the ceiling. Robert saw what was coming too late. On his way down he spied Ellsworth below. Calmly waiting.
Down came Robert, hitting the floor at an angle, and smashing up into a lab table placed accurately by Ellsworth. When Robert's head cleared he knew he was in trouble.
He could feel the hose jammed into his mouth. What was worse, he could feel his body expanding. And he couldn't breathe except through his mouth: Ellsworth had taped his nostrils.
Robert tried to roll away, with no result except for a vicious kick from Ellsworth. He tried to spit out the hose, but couldn't.
He was helpless. Even when Ellsworth picked him up and carried him outside there was nothing he could do. With that infernal hose in his mouth, all his efforts were spent trying to breathe.
He suddenly realized what was happening to him.
Robert was getting bigger: twenty to thirty times his normal size.
He knew why. The red letters on Ellsworth's tank said H-E-L-I-U-M. And Ellsworth had other tanks he'd placed out here before meeting Robert in the lab.
Bigger and bigger, and then he felt himself floating. Up… fast.
One of the last sights Robert recognized on Earth was Ellsworth Scroggle's tongue sticking out at him.
Sure, Robert is unhappy in orbit. But he'd be unhap-pier still if he could hear those countryside bucks who pause in their nighttime lovemaking long enough to stab their fingers up at him and drawl, "Lookie, Emilia Jane, there comes old Echo IV again."
There's an astrologer mentioned in the following. Nothing more should be said. Come to think of it, maybe not even that. So forget it.
DEBUT
Beverly stretched her long, nude body to its fullest height before the large mirror and twirled around gaily.
"Oh, Mother, oh, Father—the Juno Cotillion!" she said. "I'm so thrilled."
Mother and "Father looked up at her with admiration. "We are too," Mother said. "It isn't every day our child makes her debut."
"Oh, what a glorious night it will be," Beverly sang. "To come out, to officially enter society at long last. I'm the happiest girl on Earth!"
Mother smiled knowingly. "Yes, how well I remember my own coming out."
Beverly looked lovingly upon her little mother. "How does it feel? What I mean is, how does it feel to know you're really a part of the world around you?"
"You feel—free, is the word, I suppose," Mother said, said.
"Free," Beverly repeated. "Oh, yes, free! When I think about it I could simply burst with anticipation!"
Father laughed. "You'd better control yourself a little. Making your debut doesn't give you absolute freedom, you know."
Beverly danced over to Father and patted his head. "Father, I assure you, I'll always remain your good little girl."
A glum look came over Father and he left the room.
"Mother, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt Father's feelings," Beverly said.
A tear dropped from Mother's eye. "I know. It's just that your father wanted a boy so much. I remember the day the astrologer told us. You were just a fertilized egg then, when the interpreter of the stars consulted his charts, suspended an amulet over your incubating fetus, and told us you'd be a girl. Father was crushed."
Beverly smiled fondly at the doorway Father had used in leaving. "Poor, dear Father. The astrologers never have been wrong yet, have they?"
"Astrology, darling is an exact science," Mother admonished. "All the really great civilizations of this world knew that, and while some of our younger set talk as if they think otherwise, it's just their bad upbringing showing. I certainly hope you'll keep away from that crowd. Your father and I have set our sights high for you. We went to considerable expense to have you come out at the Juno Cotillion. See that you continue to make us as proud of you as we are now."
"I'm sorry, Mother. Sometimes I just feel… different, sort of."
Mother smiled. "Nonsense. If you were different, you'd never have made the Juno Cotillion."
"I do hope the orchestra plays some of the old songs," Mother said to Father. They sat with the rest of the parents in a long balcony that overlooked the dance floor.
Father grunted. "If those noisemakers down there were playing on key, you'd recognize the fact they are playing the old songs. The Juno Cotillion be damned!"
Mother was no longer listening. She never listened when Father knocked the established way of doing things. Her eyes were fixed on the ripples in the sea of bare flesh that moved gracefully over the beautiful dance floor below.
Beverly was dancing with a girl almost as tall as she. But, Mother reflected, just almost. Not only were all the rest shorter than her daughter, but none of the nude bodies turning and cavorting to the music could match Beverly's in beauty and strength. We've given her a splendid body, Mother was thinking, but I pray her mind has developed as well. Sometimes, Mother said to herself, Beverly does act—different.
The orchestra's change in tune stopped Mother's unpleasant thoughts.
"It's time," she told Father, who in spite of his determination to have a bad disposition, focused his attention on the line of girls awaiting the call of names.
He held Mother close to him. "It is, after all, our little girl down there."
The call of names began. Applause broke out from the balcony as each girl in her turn officially came out and was accepted as a member of society. And then it was Beverly's name that was called.
Beverly walked gracefully to the middle of the floor. The applause grew greater as her face began to contort.
Mother gasped. "She's frightened. She's going to spoil it!"
Beverly's naked body shook, completely out of time with the slow music the orchestra was playing. Then it happened. Her body slumped downward, and she lay there, face upward. Her eyes closed in pain, her hands tore at her ears. Over the crashing applause a piercing scream sounded, and from the open mouth of the now-lifeless body on the floor Beverly came out, her twelve stubby legs proudly finding their balance.
The hall filled with screams then. Not of horror but of surprise, then of congratulations to Father and Mother.
"My Beverly," Mother cried. "All this time—eighteen long months—incubating in the best human money could buy from any of the slave camps, and she's—she's—"
Father's green antennae clapped in joy at the sight of the lone green spot in the swarm of orange spider-like debutantes who now were feeding on the dead bodies of the young females whose species, before the invasion, had ruled planet Earth.
"Our Beverly, Mother, and she's no she. She's green, not orange. Astrology be hanged, it's a boy!"
Robert Lory, A Harvest of Hoodwinks
