SKRID, EMERAK, AND ULLOWA DRIFTED through the dark night of space, searching the worlds that passed below them for some sign of their own kind. The urge to wander had come over them, as it does inevitably to all inhabitants of the Ninth World. They had been drifting through space for eons; but time is no barrier to immortals, and they were patient searchers.

  “I think I feel something,” said Emerak. “The Third World is giving off signs of life.”

  They had visited the thriving cities of the Eighth World, and the struggling colonies of the Seventh, and the experienced Skrid had led them to the little-known settlements on the moons of the giant Fifth World. But now they were far from home.

  “You’re mistaken, youngster,” said Skrid. “There can’t be any life on a planet so close to the sun as the Third World—think of how warm it is!”

  Emerak turned bright white with rage. “Can’t you feel the life down there? It’s not much, but it’s there. Maybe you’re too old, Skrid.”

  Skrid ignored the insult. “I think we should turn back; we’re putting ourselves in danger by going so close to the sun. We’ve seen enough.”

  “No, Skrid, I detect life below,” Emerak blazed angrily. “And just because you’re the leader of this triad doesn’t mean that you know everything. It’s just that your form is more complex than ours, and it’ll only be a matter of time until—”

  “Quiet, Emerak.” It was the calm voice of Ullowa. “Skrid, I think the hothead’s right. I’m picking up weak impressions from the Third World myself; there may be some primitive life-forms evolving there. We’ll never forgive ourselves if we turn back now.”

  “But the sun, Ullowa, the sun! If we go too close—” Skrid was silent, and the three drifted on through the void. After a while he said, “All right, let’s investigate.”

  The three accordingly changed their direction and began to head for the Third World. They spiraled slowly down through space until the planet hung before them, a mottled bowl spinning endlessly.

  Invisibly they slipped down and into its atmosphere, gently drifting towards the planet below. They strained to pick up signs of life, and as they approached the life-impulses grew stronger. Emerak cried out vindictively that Skrid should listen to him more often. They knew now, without doubt, that their kind of life inhabited the planet.

  “Hear that, Skrid? Listen to it, old one.”

  “All right, Emerak,” the elder being said, “you’ve proved your point. I never claimed to be infallible.”

  “These are pretty strange thought-impressions coming up, Skrid. Listen to them, they have no minds down there,” said Ullowa. “They don’t think.”

  “That’s fine,” exulted Skrid. “We can teach them the ways of civilization and raise them to our level. It shouldn’t be hard, when time is ours.”

  “Yes,” Ullowa agreed, “they’re so mindless that they’ll be putty in our hands. Skrid’s Colony, we’ll call the planet. I can just see the way the Council will go for this. A new colony, discovered by the noted adventurer Skrid and two fearless companions—”

  “Skrid’s Colony, I like the sound of that,” said Skrid. “Look, there’s a drifting colony of them now, falling to earth. Let’s join them and make contact; here’s our chance to begin.”

  They entered the colony and drifted slowly to the ground among the others. Skrid selected a place where a heap of them lay massed together, and made a skilled landing, touching all six of his delicately constructed limbs to the ground and sinking almost thankfully into a position of repose. Ullowa and Emerak followed and landed nearby.

  “I can’t detect any minds among them,” complained Emerak, frantically searching through the beings near him. “They look just like us—that is, as close a resemblance as is possible for one of us to have to another. But they don’t think.”

  Skrid sent a prying beam of thought into the heap on which he was lying. He entered first one, then another, of the inhabitants.

  “Very strange,” he reported. “I think they’ve just been born; many of them have vague memories of the liquid state, and some can recall as far back as the vapor state. I think we’ve stumbled over something important, thanks to Emerak.”

  “This is wonderful!” Ullowa said. “Here’s our opportunity to study newborn entities firsthand.”

  “It’s a relief to find some people younger than myself,” Emerak said sardonically. “I’m so used to being the baby of the group that it feels peculiar to have all these infants around.”

  “It’s quite glorious,” Ullowa said, as he propelled himself over the ground to where Skrid was examining one of the beings. “It hasn’t been for a million ten-years that a newborn has appeared on our world, and here we are with billions of them all around.”

  “Two million ten-years, Ullowa,” Skrid corrected. “Emerak here is of the last generation. And no need for any more, either, not while the mature entities live forever, barring accidents. But this is a big chance for us—we can make a careful study of these newborn ones, and perhaps set up a rudimentary culture here, and report to the Council once these babies have learned to govern themselves. We can start completely from scratch on the Third Planet. This discovery will rank with Kodranik’s vapor theory!”

  “I’m glad you allowed me to come,” said Emerak. “It isn’t often that a youngster like me gets a chance to—” Emerak’s voice tailed off in a cry of amazement and pain.

  “Emerak?” questioned Skrid. There was no reply.

  “Where did the youngster go? What happened?” Ullowa said.

  “Some fool stunt, I suppose. That little speech of his was too good to be true, Ullowa.”

  “No, I can’t seem to locate him anywhere. Can you? Uh, Skrid! Help me! I’m—I’m—Skrid, it’s killing me!”

  The sense of pain that burst from Ullowa was very real, and it left Skrid trembling. “Ullowa! Ullowa!”

  Skrid felt fear for the first time in more eons than he could remember, and the unfamiliar fright-sensation disturbed his sensitively balanced mind. “Emerak! Ullowa! Why don’t you answer?”

  Is this the end, Skrid thought, the end of everything? Are we going to perish here after so many years of life? To die alone and unattended, on a dismal planet billions of miles from home? Death was a concept too alien for him to accept.

  He called again, his impulses stronger this time. “Emerak! Ullowa! Where are you?”

  In panic, he shot beams of thought all around, but the only radiations he picked up were the mindless ones of the newly born.

  “Ullowa!”

  There was no answer, and Skrid began to feel his fragile body disintegrating. The limbs he had been so proud of—so complex and finely traced—began to blur and twist. He sent out one more frantic cry, feeling the weight of his great age, and sensing the dying thoughts of the newly born around him. Then he melted and trickled away over the heap, while the newborn snowflakes of the Third World watched uncomprehending, even as their own doom was upon them. The sun was beginning to climb over the horizon, and its deadly warmth beat down.

  EN ROUTE TO EARTH

  This is another early story—I wrote it In March of 1957—but a whole world of professional experience separates “The Silent Colony” from “En Route to Earth.” The first story was the work of an eager, hopeful amateur, just setting out on a risky writing career, who had sold only one previous story, to the Scottish magazine Nebula. But by the time I had written “En Route to Earth”, less than four years later, I was an established writer with some two hundred published stories behind me and editors asking me for new stories almost every day.

  One of those editors was Robert. W. Lowndes, who had given me my first sale to an American s-f magazine in 1954 when he bought “The Silent Colony.” By 1957 Lowndes and I had become good friends, with shared interests not only in science fiction but in classical music and much else. He frequently used my work in his three s-f titles (Future, Science Fiction Stories, and Science Fiction Quarterly), as well as in his detective-story magazine and even, occasionally, in one of his sports-fiction pulps or his western-story magazine.

  Lowndes edited so many magazines that he had their covers printed in batches, four titles at a time, and usually asked some writer to do a story based on a cover illustration that had already been painted, rather than doing it, as was more common, the other way around. In those years I was one of the writers he frequently called upon for such tasks. One day in March of 1957 he showed me a new painting by the prolific Ed Emshwiller that was going to be the cover for the August 1957 issue of Science Fiction Quarterly. It showed the stewardess of a space-liner being beckoned by one of the passengers—but the stewardess had blue skin, the passenger had three heads, and various other alien beings could be seen in the background.

  “Easy,” I said. “This is going to be fun.” And I went home and wrote “En Route to Earth,” which Lowndes published a few months later.

  BEFORE THE FLIGHT, THE CHIEF stewardess stopped off in the women’s lounge to have a few words with Milissa, who was making her first extrasolar hop as stewardess of the warpliner King Magnus.

  Milissa was in uniform when the chief stewardess appeared. The low cut, clinging plastic trimmed her figure nicely. Gazing in the mirror, she studied her clear blue skin for blemishes. There were none.

  “All set?” the chief stewardess asked.

  Milissa nodded, a little too eagerly. “Ready, I guess. Blastoff time’s in half an hour, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Not nervous, are you?”

  “Nervous? Who, me?” Somewhat anxiously she added, “Have you seen the passenger list?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the breakdown? Are there—many strange aliens?” Milissa said. “I mean—”

  “A few,” the chief stewardess said cheerfully. “You’d better report to the ship now, dear.”

  The King Magnus was standing on its tail, glimmering proudly in the hot Vegan sun, as Milissa appeared on the arching approach-ramp. Two blueskinned Vegan spacemen lounged against the wall of the Administration Center, chatting with a pilot from Earth. All three whistled as she went by. Milissa ignored them, and proceeded to the ship.

  She took the lift-plate up to the nose of the ship, smiled politely at the jetman who waited at the entrance, and went in. “I’m the new stewardess,” she said.

  “Captain Brilon’s waiting for you in the fore cabin,” the jetman said.

  Milissa checked in as per instructions, adjusted her cap at just the proper angle (with Captain Brilon’s too-eager assistance) and picked up the passenger list. As she had feared, there were creatures of all sorts aboard. Vega served as a funnel for travelers from all over the galaxy who were heading to Earth.

  She looked down the list.

  Grigori—James, Josef, Mike. Returning to Earth after extended stay on Alpheraz IV. Seats 21–22.

  Brothers vacationing together, she thought. How nice. But three of them in two seats? Peculiar!

  Xfooz, Nartoosh. Home world, Sirius VII. First visit to Earth. Seat 23.

  Dellamon, Thogral. Home world, Procyon V. Business trip to Earth. Seat 25.

  And on down the list. At the bottom, the chief stewardess had penciled a little note:

  Be courteous, cheerful, and polite. Don’t let the aliens frighten you—and above all, don’t look at them as if they’re worms or toads, even if some of them are worms or toads. Worms or not, they’re still customers.

  Watch out for any Terrans aboard. They don’t have any color-prejudices against pretty Vegans with blue skin. Relax and have a good time. The return trip ought to be a snap.

  I hope so, Milissa thought fervently. She took a seat in the corner of the cabin and started counting seconds till blastoff.

  The stasis-generators lifted the King Magnus off Vega II as lightly as a feather blown by the wind, and Captain Brilon indicated that Milissa should introduce herself to the passengers. She stepped through the bulkhead doors that led to the passenger section, paused a moment to readjust her cap and tug at her uniform, and pushed open the irising sphincter that segregated crew from passengers.

  The passenger hold stretched out for perhaps a hundred feet before her. It was lined with huge view windows on both sides, and the passengers—fifty of them, according to the list—turned as one to look at her when she entered.

  She suppressed a little gasp. All shapes, all forms—and what was that halfway down the row—?

  “Hello,” she said, forcing it to come out cheery and bright. “My name is Milissa Kleirn, and I’ll be your stewardess for this trip. This is the King Magnus, fourth ship of the Vegan Line, and we’ll be making the trip from Vega II to Sol III in three days, seven hours, and some minutes, under the command of Captain Alib Brilon. The drive-generators have already hurled us from the surface of Vega, and we’ve entered warp and are well on our way to Earth. I’ll be on hand to answer any of your questions—except the very technical ones; you’ll have to refer those through me to the captain. And if you want magazines or anything, please press the button at the side of your seat. Thank you very much.”

  There, she thought. That wasn’t so bad.

  And then the indicator-panel started to flash. She picked a button out at random and pressed it. A voice said, “This is Mike Grigori, Seat 22. How about coming down here to talk to me a minute?”

  She debated. The chief stewardess had warned her about rambunctious Earthmen—but yet, this was her first request as stewardess, and besides there was something agreeably pleasant about Mike Grigori’s voice. She started down the aisle and reached Seat 22, still smiling.

  Mike Grigori was sitting with his two brothers. As she approached, he extended an arm and beckoned to her wolfishly with a crooked forefinger. He winked.

  “You’re Mr. Grigori?”

  “I’m Mike. Like you to meet my brothers, James and Josef. Fellows, this is Miss Kleirn. The stewardess.”

  “How do you do,” Milissa said. The smile started to fade. With an effort, she restored it.

  There was a certain family resemblance about the Grigori brothers. And she saw now why they only needed two seats.

  They had only one body between them.

  “This is Jim, over here,” Mike was saying, indicating the head at farthest left. “He’s something of a scholar. Aren’t you, Jim?”

  The head named Jim turned gravely to examine Milissa, doing so with the aid of a magnifying glass it held to its eye monocle-wise. Jim affected an uptilted mustache; Mike, looking much younger and more ebullient, was cleanshaven and wore his hair close-cropped.

  “And this is Josef,” Mike said, nodding toward the center head. “Make sure you spell that J-O-S-E-F, like so. He’s very fussy about that. Used to be plain Joe, but now nothing’s fancy enough for him.”

  Josef was an aristocratic-looking type whose hair was slicked back flat and whose nose inclined slightly upward; he maintained a fixed pose, staring forward as if in intent meditation, and confined his greetings to a muttered hmph.

  “He’s the intellectual sort,” Mike confided. “Keeps us up half the night when he wants to read. But we manage. We have to put up with him because he’s got the central nervous system, and half the arms.”

  Milissa noticed that the brothers had four arms—one at each shoulder, presumably for the use of Mike and Jim, and two more below them, whose scornful foldedness indicated they were controlled entirely by the haughty Josef.

  “You’re—from Earth?” Milissa asked, a little stunned.

  “Mutants,” said Jim.

  “Genetic manipulation,” explained Mike.

  “Abnormalities. Excrescences on my shoulders,” muttered Josef.

  “He thinks he got here first,” Mike said. “That Jim and I were tacked on to his body later.”

  It looked about to degenerate into a family feud. Milissa wondered what a fight among the brothers would look like. But one of her duties was to keep peace in the passenger lounge. “Is there anything specific you’d like to ask me, Mr. Grigori?” she said to Mike. “If not, I’m afraid the other passengers—”

  “Specific? Sure. I’d like to make a date with you when we hit Earth. Never dated a Vegan girl—but that blue skin is really lovely.”

  “Vetoed,” Josef said without turning his head.

  Mike whirled. “Vetoed! Now look here, brother—you don’t have absolute and final say on every—”

  “The girl will only refuse,” Josef said. “Don’t waste our time on dalliance. I’m trying to think, and your chatter disturbs me.”

  Again tension grew. Quickly Milissa said, “Your brother’s right, Mr. Grigori. Vegan Line personnel are not allowed to date passengers. It’s an absolute rule.”

  Dismay registered on two of the three heads. Josef merely looked more smug. Another crisis seemed brewing among the mutant brothers when suddenly a creature several seats behind them tossed a magazine it had been reading into the aisle with a great outcry of rage.

  “Excuse me,” Milissa said. “I’ll have to see what’s upsetting him.”

  Grateful for the interruption, she moved up the aisle. The alien who had thrown the magazine was a small pinkish being, whose eyes, dangling on six-inch eyestalks, now quivered in what she supposed was rage.

  Milissa stooped, one hand keeping her neckline from dipping (there was no telling what sexual habits these aliens had) and picked up the magazine. Science Fiction Stories, she saw, and there was a painting of an alien much like the one before her printed on the glossy cover.