The Greks Bring Gifts

4

There were farewell parties all over Earth that night. The departure time for the Grek ship had been arranged so the maximum number of television receivers could show the spectacle live. That meant, naturally, that it should occur during daylight on the western hemisphere. So it was scheduled for noon by Eastern Standard Time, in the United States. People on the west coast wouldn't have to get up too early to watch the more-than-historical event, and people in western Europe wouldn't have gone to bed. The rest of the world would see the show taped and edited twelve hours later.

But the farewell parties were something else. They varied with the longitude of the place where they occurred.

Not all of them were carried even in part on the satellite-relay news coverage system. In India they tended to be uninhibited. In Africa they were hypnotic, rythmic, and emotional. There was a Greek party which was almost frigidly intellectual, and in Germany it was said that more beer was drunk in less time by more people than ever before joined in a single celebration. The British parties featured a wire-carried address by the prime minister (with political overtones), and the French festivities caused a cabinet crisis on the morning after, though the party itself was a social success. The Russians staged a parade through Red Square, with torches making a magnificent picture. The Scandinavian parties were gargantuan banquets, the Austrialian ones featured athletes of national stature, and in the United States— The parties reflected the national mores. There was no motion picture or television star unoccupied on the night of the farewell for the Greks. There were few outstanding politicians who didn't manage to appear on some broadcast at some time, someplace. There were great wingdings held wherever space could be found for more than a thousand couples to dance. There were overflow parties at smaller dancing places, and the number of private celebrations was never even guessed at.

The party at the departure site, though, was stupendous. Everybody was celebrating in an all-pervading emotional binge the fact that everybody was now a millionaire, or would be as soon as a few formalities wore done with. It was settled; it was certain; it was fixed in the pattern of the future that as soon as things became a little more organized, nobody would work more than one day a week, nobody would work at all after forty, and everybody would have everything that anybody else had.

There was so far no very clear idea of what people would do with their new leisure, and nobody seemed to wonder about the consequences of being deprived of all objects for ambition. Each person seemed to feel as if he'd inherited at least a million dollars, which would be paid him next week or, at the latest, the week after. The prospect required celebration.

So the party at the departure site was a brawl from the beginning.

Down in the small shed under the grandstand, Hackett watched the television screen from beneath frowning brows. The vast plank dance floor was hardly visible because of the people on it. The music for dancing was nearly inaudible, because of the clamor of voices and the scrape of feet upon the wooden floor. The sound was a babbling through which, at intervals, the boom of a bass horn made its way, and rather more often the disconnected and bizarre notes of a trumpet.

The television camera angle changed. It showed a TV star signing autographs. It changed again. There was a drunk—this early in the evening—trying to do a particularly fancy dance. There was a clear space around him. Back to a long shot with a wide-angle lens, showing thousands upon thousands of people moving more or less in rhythm, but certainly not hearing the music, certainly not mingling, yet somehow convinced that they were having a good time.

"I don't think we're missing anything," said Hackett, "by not being there."

Lucy nodded, but she was inattentive. She seemed to be listening to other sounds.

"There," said the sandy-haired Clark, sadly, "there is the basic problem of the human race. We'll adjust to it eventually, and maybe it will be worth the price we pay. But I wonder!"

Lucy moistened her lips. She couldn't pay attention. One of the younger men went out of the shack. She strained her ears as she heard him move about outside.

"People should listen to us archaeologists more," said Clark. He didn't seem to care whether anyone listened or not. "In the old days—five hundred to fifty thousand years back—things changed slowly. Kingdoms fell and civilizations died, but never in a rush. Those things happened because climates changed and people had to move, and fight for a place to move to. But those things didn't happen overnight. Things are different nowadays.

"When my grandfather was a boy, men fastened clean stiff collars and cuffs to their shirts so they could wear the body of the shirt for a full week. Women canned vegetables for winter. They swept with brooms, washed in tubs, and made their own soap.

Then, suddenly, they got vacuum cleaners and detergents and preserved foods and washing machines and dishwashers. Things changed fast! And what did we people do? What did women do with all their new leisure? With the time they didn't have to spend sweeping and washing and canning and making soap? You know what they did! They raised their standards of what was clean and how their families should be fed and how often they should take a bath. They cancelled out their spare time! They raised their sights; they aimed higher, to keep from having leisure!

"The same with men. There was a time when a man with a flint hoe might cultivate a garden the size of a city lot. Then he got better tools. He got livestock. But did he keep to the same size garden and enjoy the leisure he could have? Hell, no! He started to farm acres. Tens of acres. Then hundreds! We humans can't take leisure. We simply can't take it!"

He grinned around the strictly temporary shack, which smelled of sawdust and unpainted wood.

"And now," he asked of the floors and walls, "now what will we do? Our way of life has to change, and practically overnight. If what the Greks have given us makes us need to work only one day a week, and not at all for three-quarters of our lives, what'll we do? The one thing certain is that we won't loaf! That's the curse of Adam, that we have to work whether we need to or not. We have to. What new set of demands will we make of ourselves to cancel out leisure such as the Greks are thrusting on us?"

Hackett shrugged, still watching the television screen.

There were footsteps outside. Lucy tensed. But it was the young man who'd gone out a few minutes before. He came in and said, "The Greks are entertaining. I just saw a man come out of the ship. He's a big shot, to judge by his medals. A foreigner. As soon as he was out, another man went in. He wore a diplomatic uniform too."

"The Greks are giving audiences," said Clark, "to prominent citizens. Representatives of the big nations. Why?"

There was no answer. The television screen showed a very famous comedy star making a speech to the celebrators. Not all that he said could be heard, but he cracked jokes, orated humorously about the wonderful time everybody was having, and then made a practiced transition to a pathetic-patriotic bit, spouted for the Greks whom all delighted to honor. When he was done, the camera shot changed and a voice announced that through satellite relay there would be a series of scenes from other farewell parties around the world.

They were only selections, of course. There were too many parties for even half to be transmitted over oceans. Those that were shown were dull. New Delhi. Alexandria. Berlin. Paris. Stockholm. Mexico City. Edinburgh.

A light began to flick off and on in the corner where equipment for archaeological research was stacked. One of the three young men called out. Clark snapped off the television. Someone adjusted something, listening painstakingly.

There came thumphing sounds. The four men in the archaeological party listened with strained attention. There was a metallic clank and then more cushioned bumping sounds. To Hackett it sounded like things being thrown into a hole.

Clark said swiftly, "Underground microphone listening under the Grek ship. It sounds as if they're filling up their garbage pit before leaving. The Army let me hear a tape of the same kind of noises. They've picked it up several times."

They continued to listen. The atmosphere in the little shack was very peculiar. Rough planking formed the walls of the single room. The floor was unfinished, but in one corner there was a pile of equipment for cryptic uses. One of the younger archaeologists hung over a particular instrument, from which indefinite sounds came at erratic intervals.

Hackett saw Lucy's expression, and moved a chair to where she could sit comfortably. The noises went on. There were more clanking sounds, and presently the irregular and intermittent noises ceased and a steady thumping took its place.

"They're finished with the garbage," said Clark. "They're putting in a top fill of dirt, and tamping it. Tidying up before they go away."

The thumping sounds continued for a time; then they stopped. The strained attention of the occupants of the shack lessened. Clark looked pleased. "We'll have something to dig up; that's certain!"

One of the younger archaeologists said, "Five gets you ten there's stuff in there from halfway around the world."

Clark spread out his hands. He wouldn't bet. Hackett asked, "Why? Did they ask for samples of stuff?"

"It's an argument," said the one who'd offered the bet. "Nobody's sure, but there've been Johnson detector reports from different places. Some people say the Greks have a flying something—nobody's seen it—and that they've made some exploration flights."

"But radar—"

"We've tried to make things radar-black, so they'll absorb radar frequencies and not reflect any of them. We haven't succeeded too well, though the Greks may have. But a Johnson detector would spot a flying thing because it wasn't the same temperature as the sky. That's .what's been reported. In a heavy rain, though, or even through clouds, a Johnson detector isn't all one could wish. If they picked storms to take off and return in, we couldn't be sure. Maybe that's what they've done."

Hackett said, "But there's been no hint of such a thing in the news."

"Naturally," said Clark blandly. "The Greks are our friends. In a way, they're our Santa Clauses. Who'd suspect Santa Claus of anything wrong? Why, the bombs under their ship can't be set off!"

Then his tone changed. "Actually, nobody's sure. And in strict honesty, the bombs and the microphones were planted before we were certain they meant us no harm. What's been done in the way of radar watch and so on—including the Johnson detector stuff—was practically routine. We humans like to find out things. The Greks told us plenty, but we wanted to find out more. It's curiosity, not necessarily suspicion."

He moved to turn the television set on again.

"Anyhow, to most people news is purely entertainment. They know what they want to hear. They tune out everything else. So the networks don't broadcast anything that would offend anybody. And anything suggesting bad faith by the Greks—That would be too frightening! The great, democratic, enlightened public would raise the devil!"

He turned the switch. The television screen lighted again. There was a "Special Bulletin" fine on it. A voice said: ". . . Hackett and a Doctor Lucy Thale, who rushed him to a human hospital, communicated with the Grek ship, and thereby saved his fife. The Grek commander wishes to express his gratitude to these two persons. Will they get in touch with the commander through any human authority? All human officials have been asked to bring them to the Grek ship to receive evidences of the gratitude the Greks wish to express."

The "Special Bulletin" line vanished. The farewell party came back. It was essentially unchanged. The floor was practically invisible because of the crowd which believed it was dancing. There were some areas, though, where people had given up the attempt to hear the music and merely walked about or talked, assuring themselves and each other that they were enjoying themselves hugely. And there were more drunks.

Hackett said deliberately, "You're very careful not to express any suspicion of the Greks. I've tried not to feel any, but I do. It occurs to me that they're making a very timely flit. They've been aground for six months. They've done marvelous things for us, yes. But- the side effects of those marvelous things are beginning to show up. If the Greks stayed on, they'd be blamed for them. If they go away, their departure will seem the cause of any troubles we may have."

The sandy-haired man nodded. "You mean unemployment?"

Hackett said angrily, "Worldwide, it's now twenty per cent, and getting worse. Factories have to shut down to retool for the products we want because we couldn't make them before. But nobody's making the products we need right along. Only one car in eight is a Grek designed broadcast-power job, but no more gasoline cars are being turned out. That's raising the number of people on unemployment. The bottom has dropped out of all fuel industries, though there aren't enough broadcast-power receivers to keep things going. The crops look as if they'll be so big—"

He stopped. People came along the walkway outside, having descended the stairs from the grandstands. They came in, several men and two women. One of the women was Clark's wife. The other was a young girl. They already looked exhausted. Clark's wife exclaimed at the sight of Hackett, and her husband said, "I know! I know! He's been paged. But it's all taken care of. Only he doesn't want reporters hounding him for a human-interest story on how it feels to rescue an Aldarian. How's the party?"

"Horrible!"

The opinion was unanimous. The newcomers sat down and described the party. It could be seen better on television, and anything was preferable to actually being there. Hackett hardly listened. He watched Lucy. She seemed panic-stricken.

He told her, "You're supposedly wanted for praise and presents, so nobody'll tell on you. If the Greks called you a criminal, it might be another matter; but nobody'll turn you in to be praised."

It was true. Gradually her apprehension lessened. The television showed scenes from the Rio de Janeiro farewell' party. From Amsterdam. The Pacific Coast party. That broadcast fairly dripped publicity plugs for motion pictures or television series, mentioned by the picture people who crowded common citizens off the camera.

Hackett heard somebody saying, "It's really weird! I saw one of the texts. Of course the Greks' idea of grammar is out of this world, but the book starts off lucidly, and gradually it begins to get fuzzy, and then tricky, and all of a sudden you're reading pure gibberish. And in your own line, too!"

It was one of the men who'd come down from the party, talking about a Grek scientific treatise. Hackett reflected that other people had the same trouble understanding the Greks.

Minutes later someone else was saying, "It's fantastic! The worst unemployment situation in history, and people who do have jobs are staying home, because soon they won't have to work more than eight hours a week."

The television announced a speech by a frequent Presidential candidate. Its climax was the introduction of the commander of the Grek ship. He was larger than a man, and he sat in a chair that was very intricately worked. His skin was a moderately light gray and singularly inflexible, as if composed of smooth plates. He bent his head in recognition of the literally deafening applause and cheering his appearance evoked.

He waited it out without expression. Then, when miniature human figures appeared before his image, waving and gesticulating for silence, he touched a small button on the side of his chair.

"He's on the ship!" said someone in astonishment. "They're rebroadcasting a projection, and he's on the ship!"

Someone else said, "He's at a good many thousands of parties. Listen!"

A human voice spoke. It changed. Another voice spoke. The effect was bewildering. But the way the Greks communicated with humans had been explained often enough. Their original breakthrough to human speech had been the rebroadcast of six human words from all the tens of thousands that had been beamed at the ship when it was alongside the moon. Then the Greks had required no more than two days to acquire a vocabulary of recorded human voices speaking individual words. They combined those words into phrases and sentences. The speech of the Grek commander to the people of Earth was an aggregation of some thousands of words spoken at different times by hundreds of human voices. It was not recorded in any ordinary sense. It was assembled from recordings.

The effect was without inflection or expression. It sounded inhuman. It even sounded creepy.

The gray-skinned, impassive figure of the Grek commander—if it were the Grek commander—sat motionless while his message to the people of Earth was delivered in their voices for them to hear.

The speech ended. The screen in the tarpaper shack went blank, as did the giant projection screens at the departure site party and all the other screens of all sizes and sorts all over the Earth. Then ardently enthusiastic figures leaped up to act as cheerleaders of the screaming uproar arising in honor of the Grek.

The parties, after that, were essentially anticlimatic. The television screens stayed alight and professionally interesting commentators poured out thousands of words of description and background. But the life had gone out of the parties after the Grek commander vanished.

Clark's wife announced firmly that she was not going back to that outrageous cubbyhole to sleep. There was no ventilation! She would sleep here, in a chair. The young girl agreed with her. It seemed perfectly reasonable for Lucy to make the same decision.

Hackett went outside with the other men, to smoke. Long narrow stripes of moonlight came down between the seat planks of the grandstand. Braces and beams and stiffening struts formed a peculiar ceiling to the space below them.

A figure in uniform came over from the bulldozer shed. It was the Army officer in charge of the earth-moving machinery. Clark told him of the underground noise indicating that a Grek garbage pit had been filled and tamped down. The officer nodded. He wasn't surprised.

There was nothing in particular to be done. They talked desultorily, waiting for sunrise. When that came, they'd wait for lift-off time. After that, they'd wait for the crowds to leave. Then the bulldozers would dig up the atom bombs and try to find out what had happened to their firing mechanisms so that on test they reported dead. The bombs couldn't be exploded.

But Hackett found himself very much inclined to jitter. He wanted the Greks gone from Earth. So did the Army officer. So did the unofficial Rogers University archaeological expedition. The Greks had given humanity the equivalent of centuries of painstaking research and development. They were leaving Earth while human gratitude was at its peak. Everybody expected that from now on—or as soon as things were organized—nobody would have to do anything to justify his existence. It seemed an infinitely alluring prospect to most people. Hackett said so, sourly.

"But personally," he added with distaste, "what bothers me is that I apparently won't be allowed to justify my existence."

The Army officer made a scornful noise. "For real frustration," he said bitterly, "you might try how it feels to know that all you've trained for and built your fife on is about as useful as a hole in the head."

He spoke savagely of the Greks' having made the military capable of nothing but the production of disaster, instead of the defense of their country, or even their race.

"It looks to me," said Hackett, "as if a lot of us are ungrateful for what most of our fellow humans most desire."

He found that it was possible to view the state of things dispassionately now. It was true that not everybody would want the benefits the Greks had made possible. Knowing oneself to be inferior and primitive and at the mercy of aliens whose presence produced a feeling of creepy dread and horror—that was a high price. To some people it would seem too much to pay for progress.

They smoked, and talked fragmentarily and to no purpose. The slatlike streaks of moonlight moved across the ground under the grandstands. At very, very long last the sky grayed to the east, and in due time the sun rose.

One of the archaeological party went off to buy coffee. The Army officer disappeared among his bulldozers. There were vague stirrings here and there.

The coffee was very bad, with the sole virtue of being hot. It was flavored by the paper containers in which it came. Hackett paced restlessly. He'd found that other people shared some of his doubts about the Greks, but there was nothing definite to blame on them. Displayed weapons or no displayed weapons, humanity was helpless against the Greks. It was necessary to believe in their benevolence, or one would grow mad with fear. But after all, there was no evidence against their kindliness. The Aldarians were lively, friendly, cordial creatures. They got along with the Greks. The Greks had given us so many things. . . .

The people who presently began to fill the stands appeared to have no doubts whatever. Some had come to cheer the departing Greks. Some tended to sniffle sentimentally at the departure of those who had done so much for mankind. There were people who were already maudlin about the benefits that needed just a little more organization to become available to everybody. ...

Those of us who sat in the stands that morning remember the atmosphere. Some of us have trouble believing that we actually shed tears of gratitude while the interminable program went on. Tears of boredom would probably have been more sensible.

It was an appalling performance. There were schoolchildren marching to give bouquets to the Greks—or, rather, to the solitary Grek who sat through what must have been unutterable tedium for him. There was a prominent artist who presented a painted portrait of one of the ship's officers. There were representatives of industry who presented special examples of their manufactures, either made of gold or thriftily gold plated, for the Greks to remember them by. The motion picture industry presented a gold-plated movie projector with twenty gold-plated cans of news film portraying Greks and Aldarians in full color on their rare excursions from their ship. There were scrolls of fulsome praise extending honorary membership in hereditary societies. Fraternal orders presented certificates of special qualification, plus the regalia for the celebration of mysterious rites wherever the Greks came from or went back to.

Such events were at least varied. But the speeches.

Every politician on Earth tried to be allowed to say a few appropriate words. When speech-making was restricted to prime ministers or heads of state of nations in being, the time required was still impossibly long. Sternly ordered to restrict their speeches to four minutes each, they appeared in hordes, and none spoke under six minutes. Several had to be hauled without dignity away from the microphones.

At long last the business was done. It was noon, Eastern Standard Time. The lone Grek who had endured all this mishmash stood up. With complete impassiveness he walked across the wooden walk from the speaker's platform to the ship. He went into it. The entry port closed. Men hastily pulled the walkway aside. For a while nobody noticed that the departure presents still stayed where they'd been set down. Some of the watchers might have expected to see this oversight repaired, but nothing happened. From bouquets to gold-plated cans of film, they stayed where they'd been placed. And then, without fanfare of any sort, the ship lifted, silently and steadily and with no ceremony at all.

The crowds in the stands burst into cheers. The unnumbered thousands who'd been unable to get tickets for the stands, cheered from the spaces beyond them. The Grek ship rose and rose, with a chorus of grateful human voices following it. Presently its hugeness was no longer appressive. Soon it was only a sliver of glittering metal rising ever more swiftly toward the heavens. And after a while it could not be seen at all.

The Greks had gone away, as they said they intended to, leaving a dozen Aldarians to help us become civilized. And we began to face certain unease-producing facts. We'd been left alone to fumble at the situation the Greks had left. They said they'd go, and they visibly had. They said they were heading back to their home star cluster, and we had no reason to doubt them. They said some Grek ship would stop by to pick up the Aldarian volunteers in ten of our years or so. They said we couldn't expect to see them back in less time than that.

We believed them, and we were uneasy because we believed them! Heaven help us, we—were—uneasy— because—we—believed—them!

Maybe, though, we'd have done worse if suspicion of the truth had become widespread. When things began to be found out, nobody in authority dared to make them public. Which, it can be said, some students of the matter consider to be the only intelligent decision made by anybody of importance—except those who came to work secretly with Hackett.