Thank God for the spider.
Presently he shut the hose off and stood up. No sound; silence everywhere. The bushes rustled suddenly. Beetle? Something black scurried — he put his foot on it. A messenger, probably. Fast runner. He went gingerly inside the dark house, feeling his way by the cigarette lighter.
Later, he sat at his desk, the spray gun beside him, heavy-duty steel and copper. He touched its damp surface with his fingers.
Seven o’clock. Behind him the radio played softly. He reached over and moved the desk lamp so that it shone on the floor beside the desk.
He lit a cigarette and took some writing paper and his fountain pen. He paused, thinking.
So they really wanted him, badly enough to plan it out. Bleak despair descended over him like a torrent. What could he do? Whom could he go to? Or tell. He clenched his fists, sitting bolt upright in the chair.
The spider slid down beside him onto the desk top. “Sorry. Hope you aren’t frightened, as in the poem.”
The man stared. “Are you the same one? The one at the corner? The one who warned me?”
“No. That’s somebody else. A Spinner. I’m strictly a Cruncher. Look at my jaws.” He opened and shut his mouth. “I bite them up.”
The man smiled. “Good for you.”
“Sure. Do you know how many there are of us in — say — an acre of land. Guess.”
“A thousand.”
“No. Two and a half million: Of all kinds. Crunchers, like me, or Spinners, or Stingers.”
“Stingers?”
“The best. Let’s see.” The spider thought. “For instance, the black widow, as you call her. Very valuable.” He paused. “Just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We have our problems. The gods –”
“Gods!”
“Ants, as you call them. The leaders. They’re beyond us. Very unfortunate. They have an awful taste — makes one sick. We have to leave them for the birds.”
The man stood up. “Birds? Are they –”
“Well, we have an arrangement. This has been going on for ages. I’ll give you the story. We have some time left.”
The man’s heart contracted. “Time left? What do you mean?”
“Nothing. A little trouble later on, I understand. Let me give you the background. I don’t think you know it.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.” He stood up and began to walk back and forth.
“They were running the Earth pretty well, about a billion years ago. You see, men came from some other planet. Which one? I don’t know. They landed and found the Earth quite well cultivated by them. There was a war.”
“So we’re the invaders,” the man murmured.
“Sure. The war reduced both sides to barbarism, them and yourselves. You forgot how to attack, and they degenerated into closed social factions, ants, termites –”
“I see.”
“The last group of you that knew the full story started us going. We were bred” — the spider chuckled in its own fashion — “bred some place for this
worthwhile purpose. We keep them down very well. You know what they call us? The Eaters. Unpleasant, isn’t it?”
Two more spiders came drifting down on their webstrands, alighting on the desk. The three spiders went into a huddle.
“More serious than I thought,” the Cruncher said easily. “Didn’t know the whole dope. The Stinger here –”
The black widow came to the edge of the desk. “Giant,” she piped, metallically. “I’d like to talk with you.”
“Go ahead,” the man said.
“There’s going to be some trouble here. They’re moving, coming here, a lot of them. We thought we’d stay with you awhile. Get in on it.”
“I see.” The man nodded. He licked his lips, running his fingers shakily through his hair. “Do you think — that is, what are the chances –”
“Chances?” The Stinger undulated thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve been in this work a long time. Almost a million years. I think that we have the edge over them, in spite of the drawbacks. Our arrangements with the birds, and of course, with the toads –”
“I think we can save you,” the Cruncher put in cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, we look forward to events like this.”
From under the floorboards came a distant scratching sound, the noise of a multitude of tiny claws and wings, vibrating faintly, remotely. The man heard. His body sagged all over.
“You’re really certain? You think you can do it?” He wiped the perspiration from his lips and picked up the spray gun, still listening.
The sound was growing, swelling beneath them, under the floor, under their feet. Outside the house bushes rustled and a few moths flew up against the window. Louder and louder the sound grew, beyond and below, everywhere, a rising hum of anger and determination. The man looked from side to side.
“You’re sure you can do it?” he murmured. “You can really save me?”
“Oh,” the Stinger said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean that. I meant the species, the race. . . not you as an individual.”
The man gaped at him and the three Eaters shifted uneasily. More moths burst against the window. Under them the floor stirred and heaved.
“I see,” the man said. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you.”
The Variable Man
I
Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps and entered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside and he entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thin face rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up at the central SRB computer, studying its reading.
“Straight gain for the last quarter,” observed Kaplan, the lab organizer. He grinned proudly as if personally responsible. “Not bad, Commissioner.”
“We’re catching up to them,” Reinhart retorted. “But too damn slowly. We must finally go over — and soon.”
Kaplan was in a talkative mood. “We design new offensive weapons, they counter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made! Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designing long enough to stabilize for production.”
“It will end,” Reinhart stated coldly, “as soon as Terra turns out a weapon for which Centaurus can build no defense.”
“Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediate obsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to –”
“What we count on is the lag,” Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hard gray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. “The time lag between our offensive design and their counter development. The lag varies.” He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRB machines. “As you well know.”
At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio on the SRB machines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All facts considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the total information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vast flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and Centaurus systems.
21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in the enemy’s favor. Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus, older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra’s rate of technocratic advance. Terra was pulling ahead.
“If we went to war now,” Reinhart said thoughtfully, “we would lose. We’re not far enough along to risk an overt attack.” A harsh, ruthless glow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into a stern mask. “But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive designs are gradually gaining on their defenses.”
“Let’s hope the war comes soon,” Kaplan agreed. “We’re all on edge. This damn waiting. . . .”
The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. The air was full of tension, the elan. He left the SRB rooms and hurried down the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Security wing. It wouldn’t be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of destiny on his neck — for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in a humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against his tanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He’d been working at it a long time.
First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instant conflict between Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flash fights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.
And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemies where contact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light. The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen. Warship against power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an iron ring that couldn’t be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. New weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.
Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endless buildings and streets. Terrans hurrying back and forth. Bright specks that were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen and white-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot masses of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. All these people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.