The Untouchable Adolescents - (1)

illustrated by KELLY FREAS
    The aliens wouldn't accept help, though their world was about to explode. They were adolescents. Adolescence is the time when you aren't smart enough to ask for help....
    The planet Diamore, hung round and gaudy in the view-plates. As colorfully unchanging as it had been every day for the two weeks since the Wallower had plopped out of inverspace near it.
    Captain Luther Shreve started violently as the whine of the Stress-Potential banks died away. They had been a constant noisemaker during the past two weeks; their continual dull rhythm had come to seem companionable. Now the keening discordancy was ended, and he knew they had finished estimating the planet in the plates.
    He sat very still, staring at the energy dials building their reserves back up. The banks had used much extra power.
    He sat very still, waiting for them to bring him the plates. He didn't want to see them. He was a full Captain in the Merchant Arm of the Commercial Navy, and he found the tough outer shell of himself that had formed during thirty years in that service suddenly disintegrating. He was afraid of what those plates would say.
    The tube glowed behind him and Teller--slightly overweight, slightly florid, slightly balding and a brilliant Psych Officer--stepped off the plate, into the control room.
    Teller slumped onto the copilot's couch, extended the sheaf of plate readings. Luther Shreve tipped his cap back on his head with a practiced thumb and shuffled the plates in silence.
    From time to time his pink tongue washed across his lips. Finally he sighed and rubbed weary fingers across the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and slowly sank back against the cushions.
    With eyes still closed, he voiced the final possibility. "Any room for error?"
    He had tried to keep the tenseness from his voice, but it somehow doubled in the faintly resonating confines of the control room.
    Teller shook his head. "They tell me no, Luther. I ran the plates up for them, mainly because they were all afraid to be here when you saw the sad news. You terrorize those poor backroom boys, Luther."
    Teller looked across, saw the odd set to Shreve's face, and realized his jibes were annoying the other. He swung his short legs over the side of the couch with a thump, clasped his hands in his lap as though about to recite.
    "They have somewhere less than five months. Then the Big Push comes. The eruptions will wipe out nine-tenths of the centers of community." He leaned across and pulled one sheet from the stack Shreve held. "Here is the position map." He indicated with quick, short jabs of his finger where the first earthquakes would hit, and followed blue lines to their terminuses.
    He extended his hands, palms upward, in a movement of futility and sadness.
    Shreve sat forward, sharply. He swept the cap from his head with one hand, ran the other through stringy, brown hair. He pursed his lips, muttered, "We've got to do something! It's more than just business potential ruined. There are people down there, Karl! Millions of them. We can't let them die!"
    "True," Teller stated simply, looking at his clasped hands. "But," he added, "what about the itinerary? They'll scream bloody blazes back there if you break schedule." He cocked a thumb toward the rear of the ship--toward Earth.
    "Karl, I've been pushing one of these cans for MerchArm over thirty years. I'll be thirty-one in August. I've never broken a schedule in my life--but this is ... this is something more important than bills of lading and sales curves!" His face had tightened, the character lines about his mouth standing forth.
    "We've got to save them, Karl. We've got to help those people down there!"
    Teller exhaled heavily. "All right, Luther. It's your choice. But you'd better produce something from those natives down there, or MerchArm might get unpleasant."
    Shreve nodded, his face sagged into weariness momentarily. Then he straightened and depressed the public-address stud on the couch arm. His orders were brief and direct.
    An hour later, ship-time, the great Wallower fired away with directional rockets, and began to fall toward the multi-colored sphere of Diamore.
    *       *       *       *       *
    High jungle surrounded the ship. Deep-red stringers of climbing vine meshed with the purple and green and blue of exotic tree-forms. From the edge of the dead path the Wallower had burned in settling, the patchwork melange of colored growth reared and spread.
    The analyzers were just completing their spore-counts when the Diamoraii burst from the jungle, thundered onto the charred ground of the clearing.
    They rode tall on the backs of their mounts, whooping and wailing in a minor key. The outside receivers, which had been left on in various parts of the Wallower, rattled tinnily at the noise. Men clasped hands to their ears and hurried to depress studs to shut out the din. Shreve and Teller whirled from their calculations and stared fascinated at the sight in the plates.
    The Diamoraii's huge, loping animals closely resembled Terrestrial giraffes. The beasts were pitch-black and ran with a gait beautifully adapted to the jungle. They came on with a liquid, side-stepping motion. They neatly leaped the twisted tree-trunks, swayed out of the path to avoid a cluster of high-pile blossoms, and trampled to a stop fifty yards in front of the Wallower.
    "Stations!" Shreve yelled into the p-a mike. He turned back to the view-plate, staring at the black beasts.
    There were twelve of them, each with a depression in its back in which a Diamorai sat, clutching the flanks of the thin, black animal with his knees. Twists of pliant material looped through the beast's noses served both as bridle and reins.
    The twelve Diamoraii leaped agilely from their mount's backs, began looking at each other with indecision. They milled about the stomping animals for a minute, then each went to a bulky pouch slung across his beast's back-depression. They fumbled in the pouches.
    Shreve turned the plates up to higher magnification, whistling through his teeth. "Wheeew! What magnificent creatures! Did you see the way they ran that jungle like broken-field quarterbacks?"
    From beside him the agreeing mutter of the pudgy psych officer blended with the busy clicking of the analyzers, totaling their counts.
    "Those look to be the people we have to contact, Karl," Shreve added, motioning toward the Diamoraii who were dragging objects from their pouches.
    "A young people," Teller mused, his face flushed. "A young and a virile people. Shouldn't have any trouble getting through to them." He turned a plate knob to sharper register.
    The Diamoraii had advanced on the ship. They were almost humanoid. Tall--almost six and a half feet each with very long legs and boney, knobbed knees. Their legs seemed to represent almost half their bodies. Wide-shouldered, V-shaped chests; obviously large-lunged. Otherwise, despite the wide-spaced, large-irised eyes, they were almost humanoid.
    As Shreve and Teller watched, they each donned a hideous devil-mask.
    *       *       *       *       *
    "Ugh!" Shreve blurted, his face drawing up into a picture of agony. "What ghastly greeting cards those are! If that's a sample of their demonology, I'd hate to see them exorcising one of the poor devils: probably frighten the thing to life!"
    Teller was leaning closer to the screen, his small eyes watching the twelve with undisguised fascination. He was talking more to himself than his superior. "Must be religious symbols of some sort. Must have put on their Prayer-day best just to come see us."
    Shreve looked at Teller sharply. "You don't suppose they think we're gods or something?"
    Shaking his head in annoyance, Teller replied, "No, no, certainly not. You can tell they don't! They haven't prostrated themselves or offered up sacrifices or such, as the typical superstitious aborigine would. No, I'm quite certain they don't deify us. Probably just insuring that evil spirits don't try to interfere with their mission--whatever that might be. But," he added, "it doesn't appear to be dangerous, whatever it is."
    The twelve were now capering and turning handsprings directly under the plate's hull-pickups. Shaking their masks into the cameras. They seemed unaware that anyone might be watching.
    "Ritual," murmured Teller.
    As though his identification of it had tired them of their actions, they sat--almost as one. Cross-legged, arms akimbo, expressions stolidly hidden by the grotesque shapes of their devil-masks, they waited. Again, almost to the second, they removed their hands from their hips and folded them across their massive chests.
    Shreve looked at the tight semi-circle of aliens, then at Teller. He licked his lips anxiously. It was apparent he was happier, now that he had landed and felt he could help the Diamoraii.
    "Well, what should we do, Karl? This is more in your line. Should we go out and talk to them, or bring them inside? Do you think they're aware of the coming eruptions?" The questions had come out on top of one another, with an almost childlike anxiety.
    It was odd to hear such a tone from the otherwise stolid Shreve. Teller looked up in surprise. He smiled slowly.
    The psych officer flipped his plate off, turned, crossing his arms as the aliens had done, and sat on the dead console.
    "I don't think they know what's happening down there, Luther. At least," he amended, "they didn't appear to be preparing for evacuation in the threatened areas when we went over them. So I rather suspect they're waiting for us to come out and chat." He shrugged his shoulders, staring at Shreve. "And that, my Captain, is it."
    Shreve looked back at the aliens in his plate. He nodded his head with determination, and his face lit up with purpose. Teller had seen the look once or twice before--never on routine commercial ventures, however. He had labeled it missionary zeal.
    The Diamoraii were still sitting in cross-legged squats, their knees up about their mask's pointed ears and horned temples.
    "Well, then I suppose we'd better go out and chat. The sooner we set up the Stress Rectifiers, the better." He got up, stepped toward the shaft.
    "Oh," he said, stopping and turning back to the psych officer, "I'd like you to come out with me, Karl. No orders, you understand, but I'd appreciate it."
    The short psychologist looked at him for a moment, nodded his head in acceptance. Shreve stepped into the shaft and sank down through the floor as the tube glowed. Teller looked at the empty shaft for a moment. As the platform slipped back into place he flipped Shreve's plate off.
    Stepping onto the platform he threw a glance over his shoulder at the now-grey plate.
    "You're a very young race," he whispered, disappearing through the floor.
    *       *       *       *       *
    They dropped the few inches to the ground, bouncing a bit more than they'd allowed for, in the lessened gravity of Diamore. All around them the screams of the jungle meshed into one primal roar.
    Shreve ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. The medic had flatly refused to allow their exit, unless they submitted to the six shots he felt were minimum safety precaution.
    With the feel of the electro-syringe still in his cheeks, Shreve stepped away from the monstrous plug-port, raising his arms in friendship. Behind him, Teller did the same.
    They moved slowly toward the Diamoraii. The twelve sat immobile, yet seeming to be looking from each other to the Earthmen, and back, in sharp, jerking motions. It was all illusion, but disquieting.
    As they stepped toward the aliens, Shreve felt the nerves in his teeth begin to twitch. He had been about to say something soothing in English, but the words never came out.
    Who are you?
    The question appeared in his head full-blown, inquisitive, without sense of direction or distance. He knew immediately from where it had come, of course, yet he could not quite believe it. Shreve stopped dead, the pain in his jaws mounting. He glanced quickly at Teller.
    The shorter man was clutching his jaws with both hands, biting his lower lip and rocking back and forth, eyes half-closed.
    "Karl," Shreve's tongue stumbled over the words in his pain, "they're--migod, Karl--they're telepathic!"
    They stood rooted in their tracks, staring at the twelve impassive aliens in their grotesque masks.
    Teller stared in open fascination, still clutching his head. "The first," he murmured in awe. "The very first! They always said someday we'd meet them, and now, by God, we have!" His voice died off to a whisper and he stared unblinking at the dark-skinned Diamoraii.
    The words appeared in their minds once more--this time more firm, tinged with impatience:
    Who are you?
    Shreve seemed unable to respond. He had thought them ignorant savages, on the verge of disaster, who would be jubilant at the offer of aid. Instead, he was faced with making contact; contact with the first mind-reading race Humanity had met racing through the stars. His throat tightened up, he could not speak.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Finally, he took a step forward, extended his hands in peace to the aliens. "Friends. We've come to help you. Friends."
    He was certain they couldn't understand the spoken words. Whether or not they could decipher the thoughts--that was something else. Later, the Earthmen could bring out the communicators if the need arose. But for now, he wanted only the soothing good will in his voice to win them.
    If they knew the Earthmen were protected by stat-fields, and that a dozen gun-blisters were trained on them, they gave no indication.
    We don't want your help.
    There was a tone of anger, a driving odor of fear, in the feel of the thoughts. The Earthmen felt their teeth jump as the thoughts materialized. Shreve realized suddenly that the toothaches must be a by-product of the psi power.
    Shreve turned to Teller. The psych officer was staring back at him, his eyes wide, his hands still clutching his jaw. They both recognized something they had missed when the telepathy first became known to them.
    It was not an entering of the mind; they could not reach into the deepest recesses of the Diamoraii's minds and get whole pictures. It was like a mental radio transmission.
    They could send and receive, with inflection and depth, but they had to do it in darkness.
    Teller said nothing, but he stepped closer to the aliens. Shreve could tell he was thinking at them, but what he was thinking was impossible to guess. If the aliens understood, they gave no indication. The transmission did not work between the Earthmen, obviously.
    When Teller had fallen back, Shreve asked, "What did you say?"
    "I told them we were here because volcanic eruptions were going to rip up their planet within five months. I told them the quakes and volcanos would kill off ninety-five percent of their people. I told them we could help them to--"
    The aliens rose slowly, and one stepped forward. He looked down at the two Earthmen.
    Hear this you are not the first strangers to come here once before strange men came to us from the sky they called themselves the Kyben and they told us they wanted to trade but they did not trade they ate away our land and burned our jungle and took our women and killed our young warriors.
    It came as a blast of pure thought. All at once, as though spurted out whole from the mind. The inflection was there--the meaning--the depth of bitterness. Shreve felt his mouth dry out at the calibre of agony in the thoughts.
    Teller shrugged his shoulders as though he wanted no more part in the matter, and retreated a few steps, massaging his throbbing jaws.
    The alien stream ceased, and the Diamorai drew back. He seemed to rise up on his toes, as though he wanted to strike the Earthman, but was restraining himself through the movement.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Shreve felt a desperation mounting in him. He had to save these people, had to make them realize their danger. "But you can read our minds--you can see we're telling the truth!" he argued. He found his stomach muscles had tightened, hands had clenched.
    The alien thought reverberated in his head: What makes you think you cannot lie with telepathy?
    Then the thoughts flowed again. This time cold, dispassionate, merely information.
    We have been as you think burned once and we do not wish to be burned again we cannot say whether or not these things you warn us of really exist but we will take our own destinies in our hands and treat them if they come we have seen no such indications of eruptions and we do not believe you.
    The thoughts ceased. Then one word alone: Go.
    Shreve cursed the limitations of the psi faculty. Of what use was a mind-reading ability if it merely told you what another person thought--not whether it was true or not?
    He stepped toward them again. He looked up at the fearsome masks and felt the sinking of his stomach. He realized they were a young and headstrong people, Teller had made that clear to him. Their arrogance was the false front of a people frightened by the unknown. But were they so young that they could not realize when they needed help?