The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories

FOOD FOR FRIENDSHIP, by E. C. Tubb

“The trouble with adventure,” said Robeson feelingly, “is that it isn’t what it’s made out to be.”

“Is anything?” Smyth, he insisted on being different, stared wistfully at the globular fruits suspended in the branches of the tree beneath which they rested.

“No,” admitted Robeson. “And there you have the whole trouble with civilization. Adventure is a snare, a delusion, a tarnished bauble, a lying promise of freedom. Strangled in the economic rat-race of his own world, a man sells up, buys a ticket to some distant place, and ventures on the sea of space in search of the road to adventure.” He was raising his metaphors but didn’t let it worry him. “And then what happens? He finds himself worse off than before, caught in a vicious trap baited by his own necessity. Adventure! I’m sick of it!”

“I’m hungry,” said Smyth.

“So am I,” said Robeson. Together, they stared at the succulent fruits hanging just above their heads.

They didn’t eat them, of course; they knew better. It wasn’t morals that stopped them from reaching up and helping themselves. They had long since discarded such troublesome concepts as to the sanctity of other people’s property. They didn’t eat the fruits for the simple reason that, if they did, they would die in a most unpleasant and distressing manner.

“The Tortures of Tantalus had nothing on this place.” With difficulty Robeson looked away from the fruits. “I can think of few things worse than for a starving man to be stranded on Mirab IV.”

“Or Sirus II.”

“Or Vega VIII.”

“Or on Lochis, Mephisto, Wendis or Thrombo.” Smyth rolled the words as if uttering a curse. “Or, in fact, on most planets of this triple-blasted universe.”

Robeson nodded, too despondent to do anything else. The universe was huge, filled with planets and swarming with the Hy-Drive ships of a score of races. Most of the planets had the right gravitation, the right atmosphere and the right temperature for Terrestrial life. But for every thousand planets on which men could live without protection only one had the essential ingredient for colonization. Only one in a thousand could grow edible food.

It was the minerals which did it, that, and the subtle variations in the radiation received from the sun. Earth-like plants grew in profusion, but the apples were poisoned with selenium, the lettuces loaded with arsenic, the corn contained copper or some other mineral in the right proportions for the adapted plant but the wrong proportions for human metabolism.

On such worlds men grew their own food in shielded hydroponic installations or starved.

The factor in charge of the food plant on Mirab IV was a dour, sandy-haired man who was firm in the belief that hard work was the destiny of the human race. Especially such members of it as Robeson and Smyth. He glared at the two men: Robeson, once plump and well rounded, looking a little like a partly deflated balloon; Smyth, always a small man, resembling a wizened gnome.

“So you’re hungry, are you?”

McKief felt a sense of his own power. He crushed it. “Well?”

“You’re supposed to provide food for any Terrestrial requiring it,” said Robeson, the self-elected spokesman. “We require it.”

“I’m supposed to sell food to any Terrestrial requiring it,” corrected McKief. “This isn’t a charity station.” He looked hopeful. “Can you pay?”

“No.” Robeson was firm. “We spent all our money in that hash-house you run. Now they won’t feed us any more.”

“Spent all your money, have you?” McKief rocked gently back on his heels. “Waiting for a ship, I suppose, to carry you to some other world.” He shook his head. “Well, well.”

“It isn’t well,” snapped Robeson. “We’re starving.”

“Then you’ll be wanting a job.” McKief couldn’t ever appear genial, but he was doing his best. Labor, on such backwoods planets as Mirab IV was scarce, and even such a pair of misfits as these two would be valuable. He pretended to consider, stroking his lantern jaw. “Let me see, now. Maybe I could use a couple of tank cleaners. Five-year contract at a credit a day plus keep.” He pulled a couple of printed forms from his pocket. “Just sign and thumbprint these and you can start at once.”

“No.” Robeson had no intention of signing away the next five years of his life. “We’re a couple of distressed spacemen,” he claimed. “You’ve got to feed us.”

“Got your papers?” McKief didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you haven’t. You were kicked off the last Terrestrial ship to land here. You’re a pair of drifters, no-good space tramps dodging your responsibilities and shaming the entire human race before the aliens with your shiftlessness. You won’t get any free help from me.” He altered his tactics. “Just sign and everything will be all right. There’s chicken for supper, with fresh green peas and mashed potatoes, with apple pie to follow. And coffee, real coffee, with real sugar and cream. For breakfast, there’s…”

“No,” said Robeson hastily. Smyth, he could tell, was weakening.

“Have it your way,” snapped McKief. “A meal will cost you a credit. Basic menu: a plate of yeast and a hunk of soy-flour bread. Take it or leave it.”

“We can’t take it,” said Robeson. “We haven’t any money. But we aren’t going to sign any contract, either. Under the Regs we’re allowed to work off the cost of our food.”

“So you’re a space lawyer, are you?” McKief looked disgusted. “I might have known it. All right, as you’re so smart, you can report to the tank super. You’ll get a meal for a fair day’s work. Now get moving, the sight of you makes me ashamed of my race.”

Smyth didn’t move. “Please,” he said weakly. “Couldn’t we eat first?”

“You work, and then you eat.” McKief was firm. “Of course, if you’d like to change your mind and sign the contract…”

Robeson led his partner away before he could yield to temptation.

“That McKief,” said Robeson thoughtfully, “is a louse.” He prodded at the unsavory chunk of yeast swimming in a watery pool of its own natural juices, which lay on a tin plate before him. “A first-class louse,” he amended. “The king of them all.”

“Don’t you want that?” Smyth swallowed his last crumb of soy-flour bread and reached towards his partner’s neglected meal.

“Of course I don’t want it.” Robeson snatched away his plate. “But I need it. I owe it to myself to look after my health.” He chewed distastefully on the unappetizing mass. “You know, I’ve the conviction that if I were to collapse while at my arduous duties I’d recover to find a roast chicken before me—and my thumbprint on that contract.” He took another bite. “And then we’d never get away from this place.”

Smyth shuddered at the prospect. For ten days, now, the two had worked like robots cleaning the great hydroponic tanks of dying and odorous vegetable matter. The tank super, a contract man himself, had no time or patience to spare for any who refused to share his misery. So he piled on the work and made them sweat out the food he grudgingly gave them at the end of the day.

“You know,” said Smyth wistfully, “we could afford at least one decent meal.”

“We daren’t,” said Robeson. “Once we taste good food again we’ll be lost. We need every cent of that money to beg, buy or bribe a passage on the first ship leaving here for a Class X world. Class X,” he repeated wonderingly. “Food growing everywhere. Orchards, truck gardens, chicken coops, the works and every last bit of it fit to eat.” He sighed and scraped up the last of his yeast. “Besides, if McKief guesses that we’ve got money he’ll make us buy food until we’re broke. Then he’ll have us where he wants us.”

“Chicken,” said Smyth dreamily. “Green peas, mashed potatoes.” He licked his lips.

“Five years of sweating for the sake of your stomach,” reminded Robeson.

“At a credit a day,” pointed out Smyth.

“Man?” said Robeson sternly, “is not made for bread alone. There are other things. Could you go five years without a drink? You couldn’t, and as soon as you taste it you’ll want more and more. You’ll even start smoking again. You’ll wind up a slave to expensive vices and spend your money as fast as you get it.” He picked at his teeth. “At the end of the contract time you’ll be flat broke and have to sign up for another five years.”

“But I’ll eat,” said Smyth. “The way things are I’m no better off.”

“We’ve got money,” reminded Robeson. “I’ve got fifty-three credits and you’ve got forty-nine. While we hang onto that we’ve got economic independence. With any sort of luck at all it will pay our passage to a Class X world. Then you can eat until you burst.”

“So you keep telling me.” Smyth was hungry and irritable. “But when?”

The tank super came roaring in just then, and saved Robeson from what could have been an argument.

“Overtime,” he ordered. “A ship’s due in tomorrow and McKief wants the supplies all ready for loading. You can start humping right away.” He stormed out again, yelling to others. Robeson stared at Smyth.

You heard that? A Terrestrial ship’s due in tomorrow. Brother, this is it!”

Smyth rubbed his stomach in anticipation.

The plan was simple, masterly, logical, and contained a touch of elementary genius. The only thing wrong with it was that it didn’t work. Robeson stared sourly at McKief, then climbed, with what dignity he could muster, from the bag of flour. The white powder didn’t improve his appearance.

“I suppose,” he said bitterly, “you think you’re smart.”

“Smart enough not to let these good people load up a couple of stowaways,” snapped the factor. He stood back as Robeson dusted himself down. Smyth, looking more harassed than ever, stared wistfully at the soaring bulk of the Terrestrial Hy-Drive ship. A grinning quartermaster supervised the loading of supplies while a couple of Rigelians looked on. The Rigelians had arrived at the same time as the Terrestrials and their ship was unloading supplies for the Rigelian station.

“I suspected what was going on when I checked the sacks.” McKief believed in rubbing it in. “You knew that the quartermaster wouldn’t argue about two bags extra on the manifest.” He glowered at the unhappy pair. “Do I have to remind you of the penalties for stowing away?”

“Shut up,” said Robeson. He knew the penalties, but he also knew that a little money to the right person would have closed the right eyes. Hy-Drive ships were fast and it would have been simple to remain under cover for the few days necessary to reach another world. He walked up to an officer. “Where are you bound, sir?”

“Klargush then on to Perlon.”

“Perlon’s Class X, isn’t it?”

Robeson looked hopeful. “Could you use a couple of good men? I can cook and Smyth makes a good steward.”

“No.” The officer didn’t like would-be stowaways and didn’t bother to hide the fact.

“How much would passage cost then? For the two of us?”

“Two hundred and fifty each, basic rations provided.”

“We can raise a hundred. How about taking it, signing us on as crew and forgetting to book the passage?” Robeson winked. “We won’t complain.”

“Not a chance.” The officer glanced at McKief. “Sorry, fully-paid passage only on this ship.” He walked away to confer with the factor. Robeson glared after him.

“If there’s one thing I hate more than another,” he said feelingly, “it’s an honest man. Look at him! Turning down the chance of an easy hundred just for the sake of a principle.”

“He’s scared of McKief,” said Smyth. “Maybe we’d better sign that contract now? That officer’s telling McKief we’ve got money. If we volunteer to sign maybe he’ll let us keep it.”

“Not McKief,” said Robeson positively. “The man’s a sadist; he’ll make us spend it first. Anyway, it’s a matter of personal pride. I refuse to be beaten by a louse like McKief.”

Smyth didn’t say anything; he was too busy listening to the rumblings from his empty stomach.

“I don’t like it,” said Smyth. “I don’t like it at all.”

“So you don’t like it.” Robcson was impatient. “Now tell me what else we can do?”

It was two days later and Robeson’s prediction had proved correct. McKief had gently shaken his head when they had reported for work, pointing out that they weren’t really distressed, as they had money, and regretting that he couldn’t accommodate them under the Regs. On the other hand, if they were to sign the; five-year contract, they could live like kings. Robeson had dragged his partner away when the factor had casually started talking about the menu.

“I’ve fixed everything,” he said. “The Rigelians will sell passage to one man for one hundred credits. We’ve got that. Naturally, as it’s an alien ship, I’ll have to provide my own food. That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t like it,” repeated Smyth. “Why can’t I have the passage?”

Robeson sighed as he stared at his partner. At times Smyth appeared really dumb. The commissary problems were such that no one ship could provide food for any and all races who might want passage; So food was provided only for the members of the race operating the ship. Others were given a cubicle and water, and left to provide their own food. It was a system that worked perfectly. It would work now if Smyth would reasonable.

“I’m the biggest,” pointed out Robeson. “Also I’ve put in the most cash. But I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about. The trip is scheduled to last three days and we can last that long. All I have to do is carry you into the ship and claim that you’re my provisions. Simple.”

“Maybe.” Smyth still wasn’t happy. “But why me?”

“Could you carry me?” Robeson snorted and shook out a sack he had found at the hydroponic station. “Come on now, no more arguing. With any sort of luck at all we’ll be on our way within the hour.”

The Rigelian on duty at the airlock stared curiously at Robeson as he came puffing up the ramp, a sack slung over his shoulder.

“Paid passenger to Perlon,” he gasped, extending his ticket. The Rigelian examined it, found it in order and uttered the customary warning.

“Passage only sold liable to alteration on route.” His translator clicked and hummed. “You have provided yourself with supplies?”

“I have.” Robeson opened the sack. “You want to see?”

The Rigelian leaned forward, two of his eyes extending themselves as he peered into the sack. Smyth, his skin blackened with charcoal, his hair clipped and his hands bound, glared up at the alien. Robeson swallowed, hoping that the deception would work.

It did. The eating habits of other races were varied and strange. The Rigelians themselves ate mineral salts, the Vegans a mass of quivering, opalescent jelly. The guard saw nothing strange in a live, animal-form being used as food. The disguise was sufficient to make Smyth, to a Rigelian, utterly different from a normal Terrestrial. Also he fell into the essential weight-restriction that no food supply could be greater than the body-weight of the passenger.

“You may enter,” hummed the translator. “Take-off within the hour.”

Safe inside the cubicle, Robeson released his partner and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Talking was out; a man doesn’t hold discussions with his food, but both gave a sigh of relief as the ship lifted and the familiar twisting sensation told of the operation of the Hy-Drive.

“Three days,” whispered Robeson. “Then we eat.”

“Just enough time to work up a really sharp appetite,” agreed Smyth, also in a whisper. He fell silent as the door slid open. A Rigelian entered the room.

“We regret to inform you,” clicked the translator, “of a change in schedule. We have been re-routed to Lundis, a journey of twenty days. I trust that your food supply will be sufficient.”