The Duplicators

Chapter 4

They reached the village which Harl pointed to with the comment that it was his Household. They rode into it, and there were a good many women and girls in sight. They were elaborately clothed in garments at once incredibly brilliant and sometimes patched. But only a few men were visible. There were no dogs, such as properly belong in a small human settlement, but there were uffts in the streets sauntering about entirely at their ease. Once the cavalcade passed two of them, squatted on their haunches in the position of quadrupeds sitting down, apparently deep in satisfying conversation. It overtook a small cart loaded with a remarkable mixture of leaves, weeds, roots, grass, and all manner of similar debris. It looked like the trash from a gardening job, headed either for a compost heap or for a place where it would be burned to be gotten rid of. But there were four uffts pulling it by leather thongs they held in their teeth. It had somehow the look of a personal enterprise of the uffts, personally carried out.

A little way on there was a similar cart backed up to a wide door in the largest building of the village. That cart was empty, but a man in strikingly colored, but patched, clothing was putting plastic bottles into it. The contents looked like beer. An ufft supervised the placing, counting aloud in a sardonic voice as if ostentatiously guarding against being cheated. Three other uffts waited for the tally to be complete.

The cavalcade drew rein at a grand entrance to this largest building. Harl dismounted and said heavily:

“Here’s where I live. I don’t see anything else to do but hang you, Link, but there’s no need to lock you up. Come along with me. My fellas will be watchin’ all the doors an’ windows. You can’t get away, though I mighty near wish you could.”

The four other riders dismounted. There’d been no obvious sign of Link’s change of status, from warmly approved guest to somebody it seemed regrettably necessary to hang, but after Harl’s decision his followers had matter-of-factly taken measures to prevent his escape. There was no hope of a successful dash now, nor was there any place to dash to.

Link climbed down to the ground. During all his life, up to now, he’d craved the novel and the unexpected. But it hadn’t happened that the prospect of being hanged had ever been a part of his life. In a way, without realizing it, he’d taken the state of not being hanged for granted. He’d never felt that he needed to work out solid reasons against his hanging as a project. But Harl appeared to be wholly in earnest. His air of regret about the necessity seemed sincere, and Link rather startledly believed that he needed some good arguments. He needed them both good and quick.

“Come inside,” said Harl gloomily. “I never had anything bother me so much, Link! I don’t even know what it’s mannerly to do about your ship. You ain’t given it to me, and you welcomed me in it, so it would be disgraceful to take it. But it’s the most iron I ever did see! And things are pretty bad for iron, like most other things. I got to think things out.”

Link followed him through huge, wide doors. It looked like a ceremonial entranceway. Inside there was a splendid hall hung with draperies that at some time had been impressive. They were a mass of embroidery from top to bottom and the original effect must have been one of genuine splendor. But they were ancient, now, and they showed it. At the end of the hall there was a grandiose, stately, canopied chair upon a raised dais. It looked like a chair of state. The entire effect was one of badly faded grandeur. The present effect was badly marred by electric panels which obviously didn’t light, and by three uffts sprawled out and sleeping comfortably on the floor.

“Most of my fellas are away,” said Harl worriedly. “An ufft came in yesterday with some bog-iron and said he’d found the biggest deposit of it that ever was found. But y’can’t trust uffts! He wanted a thousand bottles of beer for showin’ us where it was, and five bottles for every load we took away. So I got most of my fellas out huntin’ for it themselves. The ufft’d think it was a smart trick to get a thousand bottles of beer out of me for nothing, and then laugh!”

One of the seemingly dozing uffts yawned elaborately. It was not exactly derisive, but it was not respectful, either.

Harl scowled. He led the way past the ceremonial chair and out a small sized door just beyond. Here, abruptly, there was open air again. And here, in a space some fifty by fifty feet, there was an absolutely startling garden. It struck Link forcibly because it made him realize that at no time on the journey from the landed Glamorgan to the village had he seen a sign of cultivated land. There was very little vegetation of any sort. Isolated threads of green appeared here and there, perhaps, but nothing else. There’d been no fields, no crops, no growing things of any sort. There was literally no food being grown outside the village for the feeding of its inhabitants. But here, in a space less than twenty yards across, there was a ten-foot patch of wheat, and a five-foot patch of barley, and a row of root-plants which were almost certainly turnips. Every square inch was cultivated. There were rows of plants not yet identifiable. There was a rather straggly row of lettuce. It was strictly a kitchen garden, growing foodstuffs, but on so small a scale that it wouldn’t markedly improve the diet of a single small family. In one corner there was an apple tree showing some small and probably wormy apples on its branches. There was another tree not yet of an age to bear fruit, but Link did not know what it was.

And there was a girl with a watering can, carefully giving water to a row of radishes.

“Thana,” said Harl, troubled. “This’s Link Denham. He came down in that noise we heard a while ago. It was a spaceship. That whiskery fella came in it too. I’m goin’ to have to hang Link along with him—I hate to do it, because he seems a nice fella—but I thought I’d have you talk to him beforehand. Coming from far off, he might be able to tell you some of those things you’re always wishin’ you knew.”

To Link he added, “This’s my sister Thana. She runs this growin’ place and not many Households eat as fancy as mine does! See that apple tree?”

Link said, “Very pretty” and looked carefully at the girl. At this stage in his affairs he wasn’t overlooking any bets. She’d be a pretty girl if she had a less troubled expression. But she did not smile when she looked at him.

“You’d better talk to that whiskery man,” she said severely to her brother. “I had to have him put in a cage.”

“Why not just have a fella watch him?” demanded Harl. ‘Even if a man is goin’ to be hung, it ain’t manners not to make him comfortable.”

The girl looked at Link. She was embarrassed. She moved a little distance away. Harl went to her and she reported something in a low tone. Harl said vexedly, “Sput! I never heard of such a thing! I… never… heard of such a thing! Link, I’m goin’ to ask you to do me a favor.”

Link was in a state of very considerable confusion. It seemed settled that he faced a very undesirable experience. Hanging. But he was not treated as a criminal. Harl, in fact, seemed to feel rather apologetic about it and to wish Link well in everything but continued existence. But now he returned to Link, very angry.

“I’m going to ask you, Link,” he said indignantly, “to go see that whiskery fella and tell him there’s a end to my patience! He insulted me, an’ that’s all right. He’ll get hung for it and that’s the end of it. But you tell him he’s got to behave himself until he does get hung! When it comes to tryin’ to send a message to my sister—my sister, Link offerin’ to pay her for sendin’ a message to Old Man Addison, I’m not goin’ to stand for it! He’s gettin’ hung for sayin’ that to me! What more does he want?”

Link opened his mouth to suggest that perhaps Thistlethwaite wanted to get a message to Old Man Addison. But it did not seem tactful.

“You see him,” said Harl wrathfully. “If I was to go I’d prob’ly have him hung right off, and all my fellas that didn’t see it would think it was unmannerly of me not to wait. So you talk to him, will you?”

Link swallowed. Then he asked:

“How will I find him?”

“Go in yonder,” said Harl, pointing, “and ask an ufft to show you. There’ll be some house-uffts around. Ask any one of ’em.”

He turned back to his sister. Link headed for the pointed-out door. He heard Harl, behind him, saying angrily:

“If he don’t behave himself, sput! Hangin’s too good for him!”

But then Link passed through the door and heard no more. Uffts in their own village were openly derisive of Harl. But they sauntered about his house and slept on his floors and he certainly tolerated it. He found himself in a hallway with doors on either side and an unusually heavy door at the end. It occurred to him that he was nearly in the same fix as Thistlethwaite, though Thistlethwaite had wanted to send a message, while he’d only made a speech to the uffts. He groped for something that would make sense out of the situation.

An ufft slept tranquilly in the hall. It was very pig-like indeed. It looked like about a hundred-pound shote, with pinkish hide under a sparse coating of hair. Link stirred the creature with his foot. The ufft waked with a convulsive, frightened scramble of small hoofs.

“Where’s the jail?” asked Link. He’d just realized that he couldn’t make plans for himself alone, since Thistlethwaite was in the same fix. It made things look more difficult.

The ufft said sulkily, “What’s a jail?”

“In this case, the room where that man who’s to be hung is locked up,” said Link. “Where is it?”

“There isn’t any,” said the ufft, more sulkily than before. “And he’s not locked up in a room. He’s in a cage.”

“Then where’s the cage?”

“Around him,” said the ufft with an air of extreme fretfulness. “Just because you humans have paws isn’t any reason to wake people up when they’re resting.”

“You!” snapped Link. “Where’s that cage?

The ufft backed away affrightedly.

“Don’t do that!” it protested nervously. “Don’t threaten me! Don’t get me upset!”

It began to back away again. Link advanced upon the ufft. “Then tell me what I want to know!”

The ufft summoned courage. It bolted. Some distance away it halted at a branching passage to stare at Link in the same extreme unease.

“He’s in the cellar,” said the ufft. “Down there!”

It pointed with a fore-hoof.

“Thanks,” said Link, with irony.

The ufft protested, complainingly:

“It’s all very well for you to say thanks after you’ve scared a person.”

Link moved forward, and the ufft fled. But Link’s intentions were not offensive. He was simply following instructions. He moved doggedly down the hallway. It was carpeted. But the carpet was worn and frayed, though once it had been luxurious. He noted that the plastering was the work of a less than skilled workman.

He came to a corner in the hallway wall. A flight of steps went downward, to the left. He went down them. He heard voices. One of them had the quality of an ufft’s speech.

“Now, we can do it. The fee will be five thousand beers.”

Thistlethwaite sounded enraged.

“Outrageous! Robbery! One thousand bottles!”

“Business is business,” said the other voice. “Four. After all, you’re a human!”

Link’s foot made a scraping sound on the floor. There was an instant scuffling and low-voiced whispers and mutterings of alarm. Link went toward the sound and came to a place where a wick burned in a dish of oil. The light played upon an oversized cage of four-by-four timbers elaborately lashed together with rope. Inside the cage, Thistlethwaite glared toward the sound of the interruption.

Beyond the cage there was a very neat pile of vision-receivers, all seemingly new and every one dusty. The combination of unused vision-receivers and a wick floating in a disk of oil for light was startling. The light was primitive and smoky. The vision-sets were not. But the light worked and the vision-sets didn’t. Evidently. There were electric-light panels. But they wouldn’t work either, or the oil lamp would not exist. Thistlethwaite didn’t see Link, as yet.

“You’d better tell your boss,” rasped Thistlethwaite to the sound that was Link, “that if he ever expects to do any business with Old Man Addison he’d better let me loose and give me back my clothes and—”

He stopped short. He and Link could see each other now. Thistlethwaite was bare and hairy and caged. At sight of Link he uttered a bellow of rage through the heavy wooden bars.

“You!” he roared. “What’ you doin’ here? I told you to keep ship! You go back there! You want the ship to be claimed as jetsam, an abandoned ship with no representative of the owner on board? You get there! Lock y’self in! You stay on board till I finish my business dealin’ and come an’ tell you what to do next!”

“There’s someone in charge,” said Link mildly. “One of Harl’s retainers is acting as watchman. For me. There’ve been developments since then, but that’s that about the ship. I’ve got a message for you from Harl.”

Thistlethwaite sputtered naughty words in naughtier combinations.

“It seems,” said Link, “that to offer to pay a Householder for something is insult amounting to a crime. That’s what you’re to be hung for. Offering to pay a Householder’s sister for something is a worse crime. It appears that doing business, except with uffts, is considered disgraceful. I don’t see how they make it work, but there you are. If you’ll apologize, I think there’s a chance.”

Thistlethwaite cried out, furiously, “How can you do business without doin’ business? You go tell him—”

“I’d like to get you off,” said Link mildly. “I’m supposed to be hanged, too. But if I get you a pardon I might get one for myself as a particept noncriminus. So—”

He heard faint sounds. He said, “If you’ve a better way of getting out of being hanged than apologizing, I’d like to join you. I have an idea that there are persons of larger views than… ah… the humans on Sord Three. I refer to that brilliantly intellectual race, the uffts. With their cooperation—”

He definitely heard faint sounds. There had been voices before he arrived at Thistlethwaite’s cage. He waited hopefully.

“Look here!” snapped Thistlethwaite, “I’m the senior partner in this business! You signed a contract leavin’ all decisions to me an’ you doin’ only astrogatin’! You leave this kinda business to me! I’ll tend to it!”

There was a slight scraping noise. An ufft came out from behind the pile of vision-sets. Other uffts appeared from other places. The first ufft said, “You said you are to be hanged. Would you be interested in a deal with us? We can do all sorts of jail deliveries, strikes, sabotage, spying and intelligence work, and we specialize in political demonstrations.” The ufft grew enthusiastic. “How about a public demonstration against hanging visitors from other worlds? Mobs shouting in the streets! Pickets around the Householder’s home! Chanted slogans! Marching students! And demonstrators lying on the ground and daring men to ride unicorns over them! We can—”

“Can you guarantee results?” asked Link politely.

“It’ll be known all over the planet!” said the ufft proudly. “Public opinion will be mobilized! There’ll probably be sympathetic demonstrations at other Households. There’ll be indignation, meetings! There’ll be petitions! There’ll be—”

“But what,” asked Link as politely as before, “just what will be the actual physical result? Will Thistlethwaite be released? And I’m supposed to be hanged too. Will I be pardoned? What will Harl actually do in response to all these demonstrations?”

“His name will go down in history as among the most despicable of all tyrants who tried to keep us uffts in bondage!”

“Not in human histories,” said Link. “Not in histories written by men! Actually, Harl will go his placid way and hang Thistlethwaite and me. And I hate to say it, but our ghosts won’t get the least bit of comfort out of even the most violent of public reactions after the event.”

The ufft made no reply.

“I have a thought,” said Link. “Everybody has a weakness. You have yours, Harl has his, I have mine. Hart’s is that he is hell on manners. Fix things so he’ll be unmannerly if he doesn’t pardon both of us, and he’ll be like putty. If Thistlethwaite apologizes elaborately enough, pleading ignorance of the local customs—”

Thistlethwaite protested bitterly, “Apologize for a straight business proposal? A sound business transaction? I offered to pay him liberal—”

“Exactly the point,” said Link. “Exactly!”

“Mobs in the streets, shouting to shame him,” said the first ufft, enthusiastically. “Pickets around his house, chanting slogans! Uffts lying in the streets, daring men to ride over them.”

“No,” said Link patiently. “Thistlethwaite apologizes. He didn’t know the local customs. He asks Harl to forgive him and permit him to make a guest-gift of the clothes and the stun rifle Harl has already taken. No expense there! Then he asks Harl to instruct me in local etiquette so he can observe it in future contacts with Harl, whom he hopes to make his guide, mentor, friend, and most intimate companion when he has made himself worthy of Harl’s friendship.”

“I won’t do it!” raged Thistlethwaite ferociously. “I won’t do it! I’m goin’ to run this in a businesslike way! That ain’t business!”

“It’s sense,” observed Link.

“You’re fired!” bellowed Thistlethwaite. “You’re fired! You ain’t a junior partner any more! Your contract with me says I can heave you out any time I want! You’re heaved! I’m runnin’ this my way!”

Link looked at him earnestly, but the little man glared furiously at him. Link shrugged and went away. He returned to the garden, where Harl paced up and down and up and down, and where his sister again watered a row of not over-prosperous plants.

“Thistlethwaite,” said Link untruthfully, “had an unhappy childhood, practically surrounded by people with the manners, morals, and many of the customs of uffts. It warped his whole personality. He is aware that he ought to apologize for having insulted you. But he’s ashamed. He feels that he should be punished. Also he feels that he should make reparation. At the moment he is struggling between a death-wish and an inferiority complex. He will offer no more insults unless the struggle goes the wrong way.”

Harl scowled.

“But there is a reasonable probability,” added Link, “that he will end up by making the spaceship and its cargo his guest-gift to you. That would get you out of an unpleasant dilemma. It would be very mannerly to accept it. You’d have the ship and your manners in getting it would be above reproach.”

Harl said suspiciously, “How much time is he likely to take?”

“When were you planning to hang us?” asked Link.

“After the fellas get back,” said Harl. “They may be a while having their suppers. Then I was figurin’ we’d have the hangin’ by torch-light. It’ll make a right interestin’ spectacle, flamin’ torches an’ such and a hangin’ by their light. My fellas will talk about it for years!”

“Just take it easy,” advised Link. “Don’t hurry things. He’ll come around before anybody gets too sleepy to appreciate his hanging!”

He hoped it was true. It ought to be. But Harl paced up and down.

“I wouldn’t want to do anything unmannerly,” he said grudgingly. “All right. I’ll give him until hangin’ time.” Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Thana, you pick the stuff for supper and I’ll get it duplied while you ask Link questions about the things you want to know.”

The girl plucked half a dozen lettuce plants. A handful of peas. She examined the apples on the tree and picked one. It was a small and scrawny apple. Link saw a worm-hole near its stem. She handed the vegetation to her brother. Then she said to Link:

“I’ll show you.”

He followed her. She went into the building, and they were in the great hall with the canopied chair. She led the way across the hall and into a smaller room. It was lined with shelves, and ranged upon them were all the objects a Householder could desire or feel called on to supply to his retainers. There were shelves of tools, but only one of each. There were shelves of cloth. Much of it was incredibly beautiful embroidery, but it was age-yellowed and old. There were knives of various shapes and sizes, plates, dishes, and glassware, bits of small hardware, and sandals, purses, and neckerchiefs, although these last categories were in poor condition indeed. In general, there was every artifact of a culture which had made vision-sets and now was used floating wicks in oil for illumination.

Link suddenly knew that this was in a sense the treasury of the Household. But there was only one of each object on display.

Thana pulled out a drawer and showed Link an assortment of rocks and stones of every imaginable variety. She searched his expression and said, “When you make a stew, you put in meat and flour and what vegetables you have. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” agreed Link. He was baffled again by his surroundings and, of all possible openings for a conversation, the subject she’d just mentioned.

“But,” said Thana uncomfortably, “it doesn’t taste very good unless you put in salt and herbs. That’s right too, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure it is,” said Link. “But—”

“Here’s a knife.” It was in the drawer with the rocks. She handed it to him. It was a perfectly ordinary knife; good steel, of a more or less antique shape, with a mended handle. It had probably had a handle of bone or plastic which by some accident had been destroyed, so someone had painstakingly fitted a new one of wood. She reached to a shelf and picked up another knife. She handed it to Link, too.

He looked at the pair of them, at first puzzled and then incredulous. They were identical. They were really identical! They were identical as Link had never seen two objects before. There was a scratch on the handle of each. The scratches were identical. There was a partly broken rivet in one, and the same rivet was partly broken in precisely the same fashion in the other. The resemblance was microscopically exact! Link went to a window to examine them again, and the grain of the wooden handles had the same pattern, the same sequence of growth-rings, and there was a jagged nick in one blade, and a precise duplicate of that nick in the other. Perhaps it was the wood that most bewildered Link. No two pieces of wood are ever exactly alike. It can’t happen. But here it had.

“This knife is duplied from that,” said Thana. “This one is duplied. That one isn’t. The unduplied one is better. It’s sharper and stays sharper. Its edge doesn’t turn. I…” She hesitated a moment. “I’ve been wondering if it isn’t something like a stew. Maybe the unduplied knife has something in it like salt, that’s been left out of the duplied one. Maybe we didn’t give it something it needs, like salt. Could that be so?”

Link gaped at her. She didn’t looked troubled now. She looked appealing and anxious and—when she didn’t look troubled she was a very pretty girl. He noticed that even in this moment of astonishment. Because he began to make a very wild guess at what might explain human society on Sord Three.

His limited experience with it was baffling. From the moment when he sat on the exit port threshold of the Glamorgan and chatted with an invisible conversationalist, to the moment he’d been told regretfully by Harl that he’d have to be hanged because of a speech he’d made about a barber, every single happening had confused him. It seemed that beer was currency. It seemed that a fifty-foot-square garden somehow supplied food for an entire village, though its plants seemed quite ordinary. Right now, dazedly surveying the whole experience, he recalled that there was no highway leading to the village. No road. It was not irrelevant. It fitted into the preposterous entire pattern.

“Wait a minute!” said Link, astounded and still unbelieving. “When you duply something you… furnish a sample and the material for it to something and it… duplicates the sample?”

“Of course,” said Thana. Her forehead wrinkled a little as she watched his expression. “I want to know if the reason some duplied things aren’t as good as unduplied ones is that we leave something out of the material we give the duplier to duply unduplied things with.”

His expression did not satisfy her.

“Of course if the sample is poor, the duplied thing will be poor quality too. That’s why our cloth is so weak. The samples are all old and brittle and weak. So duplied cloth is brittle and weak too. But,” she asked unbelievingly, “don’t you have dupliers where you come from?”

Link swallowed. If what Thana said was true—if it was true—an enormous number of things fell into place, including Thistlethwaite’s scornful conviction that wealth in carynths was garbage compared with the wealth that could be had from one trading voyage to Sord Three. If what Thana said was true, that was true, too. But there were other consequences. If dupliers were exported from Sord Three, the civilization of the galaxy could collapse. There was no commerce, no business on Sord Three. Naturally! Why should anybody manufacture or grow anything if raw material could be supplied and an existent specimen exactly reproduced. What price riches, manufactures, crops,… civilization itself? What price anything?

Here, the price was manners. If someone admired something you owned, you gave it to him, it or a duplied, microscopically accurate replica. Or maybe you kept the replica and gave him the original. It didn’t matter. They’d be the same! But the rest of the galaxy wouldn’t find it easy to practice manners, after scores of thousands of years of rude and uncouth habits.

“Don’t they have dupliers where you come from?” repeated Thana. She was astonished at the very idea.

“N-no,” said Link, dry-throated. “N-no, we d-don’t.”

“But you poor things!” said Thana commiseratingly. “How do you live?”

For the first time in his life, Link was actually terrified. He said the first thing that came into his mind.

“We don’t,” he said thinly. “At least, we won’t live long after we get dupliers!”