Gordon R. Dickson - 8 Short Stories and Novellas.pdf - Gordon R. Dickson - widez2

Gordy is perhaps best known for the group of stories and novels involving Dorsai – the world which

produces as its only export the finest mercenary soldiers in known space. (The Hugo-winning "Soldier,

Ask Not" is part of this cycle, which is itself only a part of a much larger scheme Gordy calls the Childe

Cycle. Ultimately this should involve historical novels, mainstream novels, and possibly a series of

concertos for the kazoo – if I recall correctly.) The Dorsai are among the most memorable characters in

sf, dark and somber and inflexibly honorable to a man; not (as Gordy has said) men of the military, but

men of war. The following story is the only representation of the Dorsai Saga in this collection – and a

strikingly atypical one (well, the typical ones are already heavily anthologized). It is also one of my

personal favorites.

History says that very often it is the people who do the most for their race that suffer most greatly:

Prometheus, Moses, and a Nazarene carpenter come to mind. But the Law of Karma insists that the

books always balance in the end – that inherent in every destruction is an . . .

ACT OF CREATION

Now that I have had time to think it over, the quite commonsense explanation occurs to me that old

Jonas Wellman must have added an extra, peculiar circuit to cause the one unusual response. He was

quite capable of it, of course – technically, that is. And I don't know but what he was equally capable of

it psychologically. Nevertheless, at the time, the whole thing shook me up badly.

I had gone up to see him on a traditionally unpleasant duty. His son, Alvin, had been in my outfit at the

time of Flander's Charge, off the Vegan Warhold. The boy was liaison officer from the Earth Draft, and

he went with the aft gun platform, the Communications Dorsai Regulars, when we got pinched between a

light cruiser and one of those rearmed freighters the Vegans filled their assault line with.

The cruiser stood off at a little under a thousand kilometers and boxed us with her light guns. While we

were occupied, the freighter came up out of the sun and hit us with a CO beam, before we caught her in

our laterals and blew her to bits. It was their CO beam that did it for Alvin and the rest.

At any rate, Alvin had been on loan to us, so to speak, and, as commanding officer, I owed a duty-call

to his surviving relatives. At that time, I hadn't connected his last name – Wellman – with Jonas Wellman.

Even if I had, I would have had to think a long minute before remembering just who Jonas Wellman was.

Most people using robots nowadays never heard of him. Of course, I had, because we Dorsai

mercenaries were the first to use them in combat. When I did make the connection, I remember it struck

me as rather odd, because I had never heard Alvin mention his father.

I had duty time-off after that – and, since we were in First Quadrant area, I shuttled to Arcturus and

took the short hop to Sol. I had never been on the home world before and I was rather interested to see

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what Earth looked like. As usual, with such things, it was somewhat of a disappointment. It's a small

world, anyway, and, since it lost its standing as a commercial power, a lot of the old city areas have been

grubbed up and turned into residential districts.

In fact, the planet is hardly more than one vast suburb, nowadays. I was told that there's a movement

under way to restore some of the old districts as historical shrines, but they'd need Outsystem funds for

that, and I can't, myself, see many of the large powers sparing an appropriation at the present time.

Still, there's something about the planet. You can't forget that this was where we all started. I landed in

the South Pacific, and took a commuter's rocket to the Mojave. From there, I put in a call to Jonas

Wellman, who lived someplace north and west of the mountain, range there – I forget the name of it. He

was pleased to hear from me, and invited me up immediately.

I located one of these little automatic taxi-ships, and we puttered north by northwest for about half an

hour and finally set down in a small parking area in the Oregon woods. There was nothing there but the

glassy rectangle of the area itself, plus an automatic call station for the taxis. A few people were waiting

around for their ships to arrive, and, as I sat down, what looked like an A-5 robot came across the field

to meet me.

When he got close, I saw he wasn't an A-5, but something similar – possibly something a bit special that

Jonas had designed for himself.

"Commandant Jiel?" he asked.

"That's right," I said.

I followed him across the parking area, toward a private hopper. The few people we passed on the way

turned their backs as we passed, with a deliberateness and uniformity that was too pointed to be

accidental.

For a moment, it occurred to me that I might be the cause of their reaction – certain creeds and certain

peoples, who have experienced wars, have no use for the mercenary soldier.

But this was the home world nobody would think of attacking, even if they had a reason for doing so,

which, of course, Earth will never be able to give them, as long as the large powers exist.

Belatedly, it occurred to me that the robot with me might be the cause. I turned to look at him. An A-5 –

particularly an A-5 – is built to resemble the human form. This was, as I have said, a refined model. I

mulled the matter over, trying to phrase the question, so I could get information out of the mechanical.

"Are there Anti-R's in the community here?" I asked finally.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Well, that explained it. The AR's are, in general, folk with an unpleasant emotional reaction to robots.

They are psychopathic in my opinion and in that of any man who has used robots commercially or for

military purposes. They find robots resembling the human form – particularly the A-5 model and the rest

of the A-series – obscene, disgusting , and so forth. Some worlds which have experienced wars are

almost completely AR.

I didn't, however, expect to find it on Earth, especially so close to the home of Jonas Wellman. Still, a

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prophet in his own country, or however the old saying goes.

We took a ground car, which the robot drove, and, eventually, reached a curious anachronism of a

house, set off in the woods by itself. It was a long, rambling structure, made in frame of native stone and

wood, the only civilized thing about it being vibratory weather-screens between the pillars of the frame, to

keep out the rain and wind.

It had a strange aura about it, as if it were a dwelling place, old not so much in years as in memories, as

if something about it went back to the very dawn of the race. The rain and the falling night, as we

approached it, heightened this illusion so that the tall pines, clustered closely about house and lawn,

seemed almost primeval, seemed to enclose us in an ancestral past.

Yet, the house itself was cheerful. It's lighting was inlaid in the archaic framing, and it glowed internally,

with a subdued, casual illumination that did not dim the flames in a wide, central fireplace. Real flames

from actual burning wood – not an illusion! It touched me, somehow. Few people, unless they have seen

the real article, appreciate the difference between the actual flames of a real fire, and those of an illusion.

I, who have experienced the reality, on strange planets, of a need for warmth and light, know the

difference very well. It is a subjective reaction, not easily put into words. Perhaps, if you will forgive my

straining to be fanciful, who am not a fanciful man, it's this – there are stories in the real flames. I know it

can mean nothing to those of you who have never seen it but – try it for yourself, sometime.

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Illustration by RICK BRYANT

Jonas Wellman, himself, came forward to meet me, when we stepped through the front screen lens. He

was a short, slim man, a little bent about the shoulders, who had let his hair go completely white. He had

a gnome's face, all wrinkled, sad and merry in the same instant. He came forward and held out his hand.

"Commandant Jiel," he said.

His voice was as warm as the hissing flames of his fireplace. I took his hand without hesitation, for I am

no hater of old traditions.

"Good of you to come," he said. "Sorry about the rain. The district requires it for our trees, and we like

our trees around here."

He turned and led the way to a little conversation-area. The robot glided on silent feet behind us,

towering over both of us. Though I have the hereditary Dorsai height, the A-5 run to a

two-and-a-quarter-meter length, which is possibly one of the reasons the AR dislike them so.

"Sit down, Commandant, sit down, please," Jonas said. "Adam, would you bring us some drinks,

please? What would you like, Commandant?"

"Plain ethyl and water, thanks," I said. "It's what we get used to on duty."

He smiled at me in the light of the fire, which was dancing to our right and throwing ruddy lights on his

time-marked face.

"Whatever is your pleasure," he said.

The robot brought the glasses. Jonas was drinking something also colorless. I remember I meant to ask

him what it was, but never got around to doing so. Instead, I asked him about the robot.

"Adam?" I said. Jonas chuckled.

"He was to be the first of a new series," he answered.

"I didn't mean that," I said. "I meant your naming him at all. Very few people do, nowadays."

"The vogue has passed," he said. "But I've had him for a long time, and I live alone here." The last words

reminded us both of my errand, and he stopped rather abruptly. He hurried back into conversation, to

bridge the gap. "I suppose you know about my connection with robotics and robots?"

"We used them on Kemelman for land scouts, first, eighty years or so back."

"That's right," he said, his gnome's face saddening a little. "I'd forgotten."

"They were very successful."

"I suppose they were – militarily." He looked squarely at me, suddenly. "No offense to you Dorsai,

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Commandant, but I was not in favor of military use of my robots. Only – the decision was taken out of

my hands. I lost control of the manufacturing and licensing rights early."

"No offense," I said, but I looked at him curiously. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes," he said. "It was a little too big for one man, anyway. First the Earth Council grabbed it, then

the Solar Commission. Then it went out in all directions, with every system grabbing a chunk and setting

up their own manufactories and regulators."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

"Don't be." He shook his head, sticking out his lower lip like someone deprecating something already so

small as to be beneath notice. "It was probably inevitable. Then, I think my robots have done more harm

than good in the long run, no matter what's been accomplished with them." He shook his head again,

smiling. "Not that I was always so resigned to the situation."

"No?"

"No – I had my dreams, when I was younger. To build a better universe, to better people – I was an

idealist."

"An idealist?" I repeated. "I don't know the word."

"It's an old one," he answered. "Almost lost its meaning, now. It means – well, that you have a very high

opinion of the human race, or people. That you expect the best of them, and want the best for them."

I laughed. "It sounds like being in love with everyone at once."

He nodded, smiling.

"Something like that, Commandant – perhaps not so violent. Tone it down a little and call it being fond of

people. I'm a fond sort of person, I suppose. I've been fond of a great many things. Of people, of my

robots, of my first wife, of . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked into the firelight. He sighed. "Perhaps,"

he added, "you'd better tell me about my son, now, Commandant."

I told him briefly. It is always best that way. Make it like a news report, impersonal, then sit back for the

questions. There are always the questions.

Jonas Wellman was no different. He sat a little longer than most, after I had finished, staring into the fire,

but he came to it at last.

"Commandant," he said, "what did you think of Alvin?"

"Why," I told him, "I didn't know him too well, you know. He was liaison officer from another outfit –

almost a visitor aboard our ship. We had different customs, and he kept pretty much to himself." I

stopped, but when I saw him still waiting, I had to go on. "He was very quiet, a good sort of officer, not

self-conscious with us Dorsai, the way a lot of outsiders are . . ."

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Gordon R. Dickson - 8 Short Stories and Novellas.pdf

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