Beyond
Lies the Wub
by
Philip
K.
Dick
They had almost finished with the
loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in
gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.
"What's the matter?" he
said. "You're getting paid for all this."
The Optus said nothing. He turned
away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of
the robe.
"Just a minute. Don't go
off. I'm not finished."
"Oh?" The Optus turned
with dignity. "I am going back to the village." He looked
toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the
spaceship. "I must organize new hunts."
Franco lit a cigarette. "Why
not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down
again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth –"
The Optus went off, wordless.
Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.
"How's it coming?" he
said. He looked at his watch. "We got a good bargain here."
The mate glanced at him sourly.
"How do you explain that?"
"What's the matter with you?
We need it more than they do."
"I'll
see you later, Captain." The mate threaded his way up the plank,
between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco
watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the
plank toward the port, when he saw it.
"My
God!" He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was
walking along the path, his face red, leading it
by a string.
"I'm sorry, Captain,"
he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.
"What is it?"
The wub stood sagging, its great
body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few
flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.
It
sat. There was silence.
"It's a wub," Peterson
said. "I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a
very unusual animal. Very respected."
"This?" Franco poked
the great sloping side of the wub. "It's a pig! A huge dirty
pig!"
"Yes sir, it's a pig. The
natives call it a wub."
"A huge pig. It must weigh
four hundred pounds." Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair.
The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great
mouth twitched.
A tear rolled down the wub's
cheek and splashed on the floor.
"Maybe it's good to eat,"
Peterson said nervously.
"We'll soon find out,"
Franco said.
* * * * *
The wub survived the take-off,
sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and
everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch
the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it
was.
The wub grunted and wheezed,
squeezing up the passageway.
"Come on," Jones
grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on
the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room, tumbling down
in a heap. The men leaped up.
"Good Lord," French
said. "What is it?"
"Peterson says it's a wub,"
Jones said. "It belongs to him." He kicked at the wub. The
wub stood up unsteadily, panting.
"What's the matter with it?"
French came over. "Is it going to be sick?"
They watched. The wub rolled its
eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.
"I think it's thirsty,"
Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.
"No wonder we had so much
trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations."
Peterson came back with the
water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.
Captain Franco appeared at the
door.
"Let's have a look at it."
He advanced, squinting critically. "You got this for fifty
cents?"
"Yes, sir," Peterson
said. "It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked
that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and
milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes
to sleep."
"I see," Captain Franco
said. "Now, as to its taste. That's the real question. I doubt
if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat
enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to
find out –"
The wub stopped lapping and
looked up at the Captain.
"Really, Captain," the
wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."
The room was silent.
"What was that?" Franco
said. "Just now."
"The wub, sir,"
Peterson said. "It spoke."
They all looked at the wub.
"What did it say? What did
it say?"
"It suggested we talk about
other things."
Franco walked toward the wub. He
went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back
over and stood with the men.
"I wonder if there's a
native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we should
open it up and have a look."
"Oh, goodness!" the wub
cried. "Is that all you people can think of, killing and
cutting?"
Franco clenched his fists. "Come
out of there! Whoever you are, come out!"
Nothing stirred. The men stood
together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its
tail. It belched suddenly.
"I beg your pardon,"
the wub said.
"I don't think there's
anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at
each other.
The cook came in.
"You wanted me, Captain?"
he said. "What's this thing?"
"This is a wub," Franco
said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out -"
"I think we should have a
talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this with you,
Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some
basic issues."
The Captain took a long time to
answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its
jowls.
"Come into my office,"
the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The
wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard
it climbing the stairs.
"I wonder what the outcome
will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let
me know as soon as you hear."
"Sure," Jones said.
"Sure."
* * * * *
The wub eased itself down in the
corner with a sigh. "You must forgive me," it said. "I'm
afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as
large as I –"
The Captain nodded impatiently.
He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
"All right," he said.
"Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?"
The wub shrugged. "I suppose
so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own
term."
"And you speak English?
You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"
"No."
"Then how do you do it?"
"Speak English? Am I
speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in
particular. I examined your mind –"
"My mind?"
"I studied the contents,
especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it –"
"I see," the Captain
said. "Telepathy. Of course."
"We are a very old race,"
the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for
us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy
would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use
in our relying on physical defences. How could we win? Too heavy to
run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game –"
"How do you live?"
"Plants. Vegetables. We can
eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic,
catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along."
The wub eyed the Captain.
"And that's why I so
violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could
see the image in your mind – most of me in the frozen food locker,
some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat -"
"So you read minds?"
the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what
else can you do along those lines?"
"A few odds and ends,"
the wub said absently, staring around the room. "A nice
apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect
life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They
throw things out of their nests and sweep them -"
"Indeed." The Captain
nodded. "But to get back to the problem -"
"Quite so. You spoke of
dining on me. 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.
* * * * *
The 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 behind him, wide-eyed, silent.
"I'll do it. You can watch."
French nodded. "Try to hit
the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib
cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."
"Listen," Peterson
said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What harm has it
done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right
to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."
Franco raised his gun.
"I'm going out," Jones
said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to see it."
"Me, too," French said.
The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.
"It was talking to me about
myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."
He went outside.
Franco walked toward the wub. The
wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.
"A very foolish thing,"
it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable
that your Saviour related -"
It stopped, staring at the gun.
"Can you look me in the eye
and do it?" the wub said. "Can you do that?"
The Captain gazed down. "I
can look you in the eye," he said. "Back on the farm we had
hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it."
Staring down at the wub, into the
gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.
* * * * *
The taste was excellent.
They sat glumly around the table,
some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be
enjoying himself was Captain Franco.
"More?" he said,
looking around. "More? And some wine, perhaps."
"Not me," French said.
"I think I'll go back to the chart room."
"Me, too." Jones stood
up, pushing his chair back. "I'll see you later."
The Captain watched them go. Some
of the others excused themselves.
"What do you suppose the
matter is?" the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson
sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and
at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.
He opened his mouth. No sound
came.
The Captain put his hand on
Peterson's shoulder.
"It is only organic matter,
now," he said. "The life essence is gone." He ate,
spooning up the gravy with some bread. "I, myself, love to eat.
It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy.
Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things."
Peterson nodded. Two more men got
up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.
"Well," he said. "I
must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had
heard were quite true – the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was
prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past." He dabbed
at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson
stared dejectedly at the table.
The Captain watched him intently.
He leaned over.
"Come, come," he said.
"Cheer up! Let's discuss things."
He smiled.
"As I was saying before I
was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths -"
Peterson jerked up, staring.
"To go on," the Captain
said. "Odysseus, as I understand him -"
Philip K. Dick should need no introduction. If you are unfamiliar with his work, check out the amazon page here and his Wikipedia page here. This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).
