The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—"
The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—"
"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—"
The Captain walked to the door.
"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.
He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.
The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.
T he room was quiet.
"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—"
Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.
"Go on," he said. "Please go on."
"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation."
"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. "Finally he goes home."
"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race...."
The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.
Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.
"Are you all right?" French said.
"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"
Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up and come here."
There was silence.
"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."
Peterson stood up. "What for?"
"It's an order."
Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.
"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with you?"
Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.
"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why."
"Get up," Franco said.
"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.
"Shoot it now," French said.
"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.
"You didn't see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."
"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."
They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.
"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."
The men pulled aside toward the door.
"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—"
The gun jerked.
"See," Franco said. "I thought so."
The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.
"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—"
Franco turned to the men, crowding
The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—"
"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—"
The Captain walked to the door.
"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.
He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.
The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.
T he room was quiet.
"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—"
Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.
"Go on," he said. "Please go on."
"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation."
"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. "Finally he goes home."
"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race...."
The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.
Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.
"Are you all right?" French said.
"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"
Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up and come here."
There was silence.
"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."
Peterson stood up. "What for?"
"It's an order."
Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.
"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with you?"
Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.
"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why."
"Get up," Franco said.
"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.
"Shoot it now," French said.
"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.
"You didn't see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."
"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."
They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.
"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."
The men pulled aside toward the door.
"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—"
The gun jerked.
"See," Franco said. "I thought so."
The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.
"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—"
Franco turned to the men, crowding
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