James Norman

With the grape-headed Uvans acting as the
brains of the Universe, Mankind no longer
needed to think for itself. So when a freebooter
like Bill Petrie began getting original ideas, he
caused a crisis that threatened the cosmos.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The first of the things to pass below him had round yellow eyes in the top of its head. The next one had an eye on each side, just below the ears. Soon they came in droves, crowding into the fantastic market-place, staring up at Bill with quizzical curiosity. There seemed to be no regularity at all about where they wore the eyes on their heads.

Bill Petrie didn't attempt to move. He couldn't. His chafed neck and wrists were firmly clamped within the slots of a medieval pillory. As he hung there, sweltering in the heat, he wondered how long he had been unconscious and how long in the pillory. Somehow, it was hard to believe he actually was where he was.

"Uva, north-ecliptic tangent, electric buzzer," he muttered fuzzily.

The Uva part of it made sense all right, but that was all. In the fast-paced life of 2451 A.D., Uva, or Planetoid eighty-one in the Sirius north-ecliptic tangent, held a unique position in the universe. It was the most respected, yet least visited, body in the skies. People called it the brain-register of the universe just as a certain dimly storied Wall Street had once been the cash register of the Earth.

It was generally known that there were natives on Uva whose heads resembled strange clusters of grapes and whose eyes had a disconcerting habit of never being in one regular place on their heads. Some years after the discovery of Uva by the Gonzales "space-shot" it was found that the Uvans had a peculiarly facile brain. They could take any problem, no matter how tough, and crack it down into simple formula. You gave them a problem and an equals sign—they gave you the answer. It was a wonderful discovery.

Brains were no longer at a premium. Uvans did all the thinking, technicians did the work and the Interworld Government did the administering. It was administrators that counted now.

Bill Petrie wasn't an administrator. He was a freebooter, one of that rare, declassed group who still clung to the idea that they could do their own thinking instead of having it done for them.

He squinted hard at the Uvans who crowded beneath the pillory and shuddered. Something was wrong. The Uvans were supposed to be very mild and not at all addicted to the use of ancient tortures. This time he shut his eyes and held them that way, cutting out sight while he tried to think back.

He recalled the first scene: shooting upward to the top offices of the Interworld Fuel Monopoly....

Bill worked for the Monopoly as a kind of glorified errand boy. Everyone worked for monopolies in this day and age, freebooter or not. As he rode upward, he had an inkling that something important was disturbing the smoothly regulated mechanism of the world. The entire IWFM building buzzed with feverish activity.

"Another fuel crisis," Bill murmured thoughtfully. He stepped from the elevator and hurried down a hall to a door marked—Commissioner Castlebottom, Fuel. Bill rapped.

"Come in," said a voice. It was a smooth feminine voice, not Castlebottom's.

Bill entered and was stared at from behind a desk. The eyes that were fastened upon him were worried and balloon-like. They belonged to Castlebottom, a youngish, rotund individual with a great deal of front.

"So it's you at last," Castlebottom puffed. "Such delays! The crisis ... etheroel."

Bill sniffed, then jockeyed his eyes around, searching for the other voice. It was then that he caught his breath....

Kitty Carlton was the woman of the moment, the toast of three worlds—Mars, Venus and Earth. The Planetoids didn't count for they were just colonies. Kitty was the very capable chief of the giant Cosmetics Monopoly. But she wasn't toasted for that. It was her very trim, blonde, dimpled loveliness that did the trick. Dressed in leatherine white from head to foot, she resembled a snow queen.

"Petrie!" Castlebottom's strained voice jarred Bill back into the present. "Pay attention, please! That's the trouble with you freebooters. Minds always wander."

"Do you blame me?" Bill murmured.

"The matter in hand," Castlebottom said, frowning and paying no attention to the girl. "You know there's an etheroel crisis? We've tapped the last fuel sands on Venus. Our supply will be gone within a month. You know what that means?"

"Where do I fit in?" Bill asked.

"This, precisely," said Castlebottom. "You leave for Planetoid Uva immediately. We can't spare anyone else. Here are the equals to be filled in by the Uvans. We've outlined the problem. We need a synthetic etheroel. The Uvans will give you the answer. Guard it with your life. Now you'll need credentials ... wait...."

Castlebottom was up from his desk. He disappeared into a side office.

"Freebooter, eh?" It was Kitty Carlton. She had crossed the room and now sat on the edge of Castlebottom's desk, looking at Bill with frank, deep-blue eyes. "Very interesting. You're the first one I've ever seen this close. You don't look very different."

"So you think," Bill grinned. "You ought to hear my side of the difference. How about lunch any one of these years?"

The girl's penciled brows knitted. "With a freebooter? No!" Her lips parted with a vague smile. "But if you were ... ah ... for example, a monopoly commissioner like Tubby—"

"Tubby?" asked Bill.

"Yes, Castlebottom, my fiancÉ."

"You'd give me a buzz?"

"Perhaps."

Castlebottom returned to the room, puffing with bureaucratic vigor. "Here are your credentials, Petrie," he said, handing Bill a metallic IWG diplomatic pass. "There's a Patrol cruiser waiting."

Bill took one look at Kitty Carlton and tossed the pass back upon the desk. "I'm not going!" he said.

"Not going!" Castlebottom exploded. "But the fuel crisis, man!"

"Get someone else. I said I'm staying. I'm working my way up to head a monopoly."

"You!" Castlebottom turned purple.

"Yeah, me. I'll think my way up. That's more than you ever did."

Castlebottom looked very threatening for a second. He clenched and unclenched his hands spasmodically, finally stabbing a pudgy finger at a pushbutton on his desk. He had the look of a conqueror as he stared toward the door.

Bill pivoted in time to see the three Monopoly Building policemen charge in. Each one was built on the order of an eight-gun space-destroyer and the result was about as devastating. Bill got in one sharp jab but a moment later the three destroyers carried him out. Bill's sandy hair was a bit mussed. His good-natured mouth was clamped tightly on a trickle of blood and the rest of his body felt like strenuously whipped eggs.

"Freebooter!" That was the last thing he heard Castlebottom saying. "Take him down to the cruiser."

Bill was in no condition to appreciate the next few days. He sensed the wallowing of the IWP Cruiser as it hit difficult gravs and felt his ears dulled by the hollow drumming of the rocket pumps. Sometimes a mess-boy brought in food but more often, icepacks. Between icepacks, Bill figured a dozen ways of evening the score with Commissioner Castlebottom.

The plans were all very good, but with one exception. The next day, the Patrol Cruiser hovered over a planetoid surface described by astronomers as Uva. Castlebottom was back on Earth.

A Junior Officer ferried Bill from the Cruiser to the planetoid in a small auxiliary plane.

"We'll pick you up in fifty hours," said the officer.

"Why will it be that long?" asked Bill.

"It'll take that long. You don't know the Uvans."

Bill made a wry face. "Why don't you come down and wait?"

"Can't," replied the officer noncommittally. "There's only one Interworld Government pass for landing on Uva. You've got it now. Even the Patrol is only allowed to land in cases of extreme emergency. They're strict about that. No visitors allowed."

The tiny plane settled quietly in what appeared to be the suburb of the only city on Uva. Bill dropped to the ground and breathed deeply of the somewhat muggy, compressed atmosphere of the little planetoid.

"The American Commissioner's place is straight up this street," said the officer. "So long!" He waved good-by and gunned the plane away. Bill watched it climb for a second, then turned, marching briskly up the street.

The germ of an idea—perhaps two ideas—chased around in his brain. "Maybe I'll get the Uvans to figure out a way for me to head a monopoly. Something quick," he thought. "If not, I can always hi-jack the synthetic etheroel formula they'll give me. Castlebottom will give plenty for it."

He quickened his pace. The Uvan city closed about him. Bill wasn't paying much attention to it. He gave half-hearted notice to the rather wild, idiotic arrangement of buildings and streets. Almost everything was done in amber. Streets stemmed off from the main drag, then suddenly stopped flush against a building as though some absent-minded architect had laid the city out.

Something jerked Bill's arm. He turned and found himself staring. Then he gulped enormously. The thing was undoubtedly a native. It stood about four feet high and had a salt-cellar body, thick at the bottom and slim at the top, made of what appeared to be a translucent amber plastic. Then there was the head. It was bright purple and lumpy all over, like a cluster of lush grapes. It had ears on each side, a pointed mouth and a pair of eyes right under the lower lip.

A pair of tenuous arms waved before Bill. The eyes scrutinized him from under the lip with a vague sort of intelligence. "Caviar," demanded the thing. It stretched one blade-like hand greedily forward.

Bill gasped. He felt dazed. Good Lord, these were the Uvans.

"Caviar?"

One of the grapes on the grape-cluster head of the Uvan flashed a yellow light. It blinked on and off like a busy signal on a telephone operator's switchboard. For an instant, the Uvan tried to look menacing.

Bill whipped out his credentials. The pass seemed to strike a responsive chord in the Uvan for the latter's two eyes saddened. "No caviar," he murmured. "No caviar. A sadness. Up revolution."

The last phrase had some sort of magical effect for no sooner had it been uttered, than the streets were filled with more Uvans. They crowded around, muttering, taking up the refrain—"Up revolution. No caviar. Up revolution."

Bill backed away cautiously. There was a sudden empty feeling at the pit of his stomach. Why hadn't Castlebottom or the Patrol told him about this business of caviar? Why hadn't they warned him the Uvans were touchy about revolution?

Some fifty of them gathered in the street now. The individual grape cells on their heads flashing brilliant lights. They were a motley array, like nothing Bill had ever seen. Somehow, they didn't attempt to attack. They just strung along behind him, muttering "revolution" left and right with amazing persistence.

Then Bill spied the Interworld Government flag, bright gold on crimson, fluttering above a rambling low building—the American Commissioner's residence. He moved cautiously toward the doorway, afraid to excite the Uvans by too sudden a motion. At last he looked back. That was strange! The Uvans stood at a respectful distance.

Bill let out a sigh of relief and pushed the doorbell buzzer. He let out a wild yell. A fiery something grabbed his finger. Knives seemed to jab up his arm and slid down his spine. He reeled back among the Uvans who watched him as though this were all a very lively experiment.

"What the devil happened?" Bill gasped.

"Electric," answered one of the Uvans.

"Electric," Bill murmured. Then the light dawned. The electric buzzer on the door wasn't insulated. He had punched a live wire.

The cumulative strain of being followed by the grape-headed natives, then the shock from the buzzer had its effects on Bill. His legs sagged uncertainly and a cold sweat broke out, bathing his brow. He reached in one pocket, bringing forth a handy flask of super-potent Venusian brandy and unscrewed the cap.

Raising the flask, he felt the searing warmth trickle down his throat. What happened an instant later couldn't have come from the brandy. Bill felt something hit him from all four sides. It had the composite solidness of an avalanche, a few battering rams and a dozen Uvans.

A second before his consciousness keeled over backward into a depthless funnel of darkness he was under the distinct impression of seeing his brandy flask spin upward, spilling liquor over an orange-eyed Uvan. But that wasn't all. The Uvan simply dissolved before his eyes like a sugar man soaked by water!

With his eyes still shut, his neck and wrists clamped in the pillory, these last thoughts flashed through Bill's mind. Was it a crime to drink on Uva? What about the caviar? Why had the Uvans jumped on him without explaining? What were they going to do now?

A bustle of excitement in the market-place caused him to open his eyes again. He saw the stubby bodied Uvans pushing two new pillories into place, one on each side of Bill's.

It was then that Bill gasped. His eyes blinked in incredible wonder. "It's not possible!" he murmured. The head thrust through the pillory on the right was familiarly dainty—yes, Kitty Carlton!

Bill's astonished eyes swerved to the left.

"Castlebottom!" he shouted.

Castlebottom, with his pudgy neck uncomfortably pinched in the tight pillory slot, fussed and fumed with impotent rage. "Get me out of here!" he cried. "Someone will suffer. I say, there!"

Bill grinned, highly pleased. He twisted his head around as far as it would go, looking toward Kitty Carlton. "You hardly look put out," he commented. The girl did look rather pleased with the situation, despite the unyielding wooden collar.

Kitty smiled. "I'm not," she said.

"How'd you get here?"

"Very simple," said Kitty, her eyes flashing from Bill to Castlebottom. "Tubby wanted to marry me. I agreed to elope. It's so romantic you know. I thought Uva would be just the place."

"You mean Tubby ... ah ... Castlebottom agreed to elope and be married on Uva?"

"Well, he didn't know about that part of it!"

Bill grinned widely. "Something tells me you knew all along you'd be arrested the minute you brought a ship down here without entry credentials."

The outer fringe of the market-place crowd surged suddenly. Bill quickly swerved his glance, for a minute half expecting the Uvans to froth over and charge the pillories. This, however, seemed to be a wild surmise for the Uvans stood around, for all the world looking like a peaceful, deeply preoccupied convention of scientists and professors. Many of them carried umbrellas, some open, others closed. Many appeared to be puzzled as to why they were in the market-place at all.

Then Bill saw the cause of the disturbance. A lean, thatch-haired earthman moved through the crowd. He was dressed in a mono, the belted, coverall uniform strictly reserved for Interworld Government officials. The Uvans moved respectfully aside, opening a channel to the pillories.

He stopped directly before Bill and gazed up in a half bewildered fashion. "I'm Webster," he said. "Interworld Government representative on Uva. There's going to be a trial. I suppose you're the people up for trial?"

"A trail for what?" Bill asked.

Webster flashed Bill a disconcerted look, then turned and conferred with three official looking Uvans, some of whose eyes were at the backs of their heads. A low, earnest conversation ensued. Finally Webster fastened his eyes on Bill, appealingly.

"Do you mind telling me who's responsible?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Bill demanded, impatiently.

"Look here," said Webster, "you don't understand. There's going to be a trial. That's certain. But I might tell you for your own good, the Uvans are most absent-minded. They can't remember the charges against more than one person so I'd like to know which one of you is responsible. All of you can't be responsible. It just won't do. Now, which one of you caused the trouble?"

Bill glanced at Kitty, then at Castlebottom. Uva began to exhibit signs of unlimited promise for an alert freebooter. Bill twisted his pinioned left hand, crooking an accusing finger at Castlebottom.

"He's the trouble," said Bill. "Miss Carlton and I came together. I'll show you my credentials. We're here to get an equals for the Fuel Monopoly. This tubby chap stowed away on our ship. He's trying to smuggle liquor into Uva."

"Liquor?" A curious, tense note entered Webster's voice. "Liquor, did you say?"

"It's a bald lie. I did no such thing," Castlebottom protested chokingly. "You know who I am? Ask Miss Carlton. She'll tell you who I am."

Commissioner Webster stared appreciatively at Kitty Carlton who, even though her head was caught in a pillory, would still be the toast of three planets.

"I never saw the fat man in my life," Kitty protested.

"That settles it then," said Webster. "Liquor. Hmm, a sadness, too. It could have been something else." He conferred again with the Uvan officials.

A moment later the pillory holding Castlebottom was carted away to the local courthouse, the entire population of Uva following it. The stocks, holding Bill and Kitty were released, freeing them.

"That's nice," said Bill as he rubbed his neck and dropped to the ground beside Kitty and the Commissioner. "But what's going to happen to Castlebottom?"

Webster shook his head forlornly. "Oh, by the time they get him to the court and ready for trial they'll have forgotten the charges again. The Uvans are terribly absent-minded about little things like that. They'll bring him back to the market and put him in the stocks again. It's the stock punishment. But now, let's get along and find you an office."

"An office?" Kitty Carlton interrupted.

Webster took her arm in colonial gentleman fashion and began walking.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "You'll both need an office. Everyone needs a place to think in. An office is best. You understand, Uva's principal industry is thinking. If you're to be here for any length of time you'll need an office."

Webster halted, let his eyes scan the oddly shaped buildings bordering the market-place, then he set off toward an empty stall in a nearby building. As he entered, followed by Bill and Kitty, he waved his hand elegantly. "This should do. Everything you'll need: umbrella stand, chairs and a do-not-disturb sign ... ah.... What's your name?"

"Petrie, Fuel Monopoly," said Bill.

Webster took a scrap of chalk from his pocket and scrawled a hasty, uneven sign on the amber sidewalk before the little office.

PETRIE OFFICE FUEL MONOPOLY

"Now, let's go in," continued Webster. He hung out the do-not-disturb sign and pulled all the shades so that nothing could be seen of the street. Then, with exaggerated caution resulting only from life in a prohibition era, he brought forth a personal flask and three folding cups. "Got to be careful here," he added. "The Uvans are made mostly of resin. It's soluble in alcohol."

"Hah, so that's why the door buzzer on your residence gave me such a jump," Bill laughed. "Resin is a non-conductor of electricity. They don't need any insulation here, eh?"

"They're awfully absent-minded," smiled Kitty. "Has that anything to do with their brightness?"

Webster sipped his brandy slowly and discreetly.

"You don't know about the segmentation?" he asked.

"No," replied Kitty. "All that we know about Uva is what we're supposed to know. In fact, the outside world has the general impression that the Uvan brain-register is just one big puddle of brains. You push a button and out comes an answer."

"Ah, such a sadness. Such misconception," Webster murmured.

"What about the segmentation?" asked Bill.

Webster brightened and blinked his gentle eyes. "A most interesting phenomena," he began. "You recall the story about that warrior in ancient history—Napoleon. It is said that he had a mind like a file cabinet. He could open any drawer in his mind and think about what was in it to the exclusion of all else. Then, at will, he could shut off a particular thought just as one closes a drawer. The Uvans are like that. Their minds are segmented.

"Their faculty for thinking is as precise as a machine. All their thought efforts can concentrate in any one of the grape-like thought cells in their heads completely cutting out all other thoughts. That's why they're so absent-minded about little things. They have absolutely no administrative or practical ability. Administration required, not concentration, but spread."

"But how'd they get so bright?"

"Ah, just listen," said Webster. "Nature just happened to provide in this manner. However, the segmentation is a slow process. Uvans live to be about a hundred and fifty years old. After that, their resin bodies crystallize and flake away. They reach their age of thought at the age of one hundred and forty years which means they've only got about ten years for good active thinking. It's quite a problem. That's why the Interworld Government guards them so carefully.

"The young Uvans are nursed along through their first century and forty years of childhood as though they were gems. Very few get born and fewer attain their age of thought. The day of the final segmentation and solidifying of their brains is one of great celebration. The Uvans are a pleasant people. They love celebrations, particularly revolutionary ones."

Bill gulped on his liquor. "Caviar?" he gasped.

"Ah, caviar," Webster beamed. "You've heard of the caviar wars?"

"Wouldn't say I had," replied Bill.

Webster hesitated a moment, ran over to the window and peeked out through the crack between the window and shade. He returned to his chair. "Where was I?"

"The caviar wars," Kitty prompted.

"Ah, yes. They figure a great deal in Uva's history. You remember that period in history when the world was still dominated by freebooters—not that I have anything against them—the Spaniards, under Gonzales, discovered Planetoid Uva. They called the natives here "cabeza uvas" or "grape-heads." Well, they tried exploiting the planetoid for various natural resources and consequently, many native Uvans died. It is also said that the Gonzales expedition, when it hit Uva, was carrying a cargo of Venusian caviar to delivery to Earth. It was used here as a trade medium.

"The Spaniards have always been unlucky as a colonial power, even in the space world. Discovering America, they took away gold without realizing the country was far more valuable than all its yellow metal. With Uva it was the same. They exploited certain natural resources without realizing that the Uvan natives, with their peculiar brain, were far more valuable as brain-registers."

"So," Bill interrupted, "When the Interworld Government was formed, Uva was restricted. We capitalized on nothing but their brains, eh?"

"Oh, it wasn't as easy as that," Webster shook his head. "We had to grant them autonomy. They're very revolutionary. Intergovernment laws don't apply on Uva. Even now there are difficulties. The only way we maintain any control is by judicious doles of caviar. But sometimes, when they all get the caviar bug at the same moment, a few lively anti-world government wars break out. You're not here for that, are you?"

"I'm here to get an equals formula," replied Bill. "The Fuel Monopoly is in a hole. The Venus etheroel supply is about run out."

"Etheroel!" Commissioner Webster jerked back suddenly, spilling his cup of liquor.

"Yeah, how do I get an equals?"

Webster shook his head worriedly. "You'll have to go to the Uvan Thought Clinic. Just present an equals there and they'll give you a completed answer." Webster hesitated a second, fished into his pocket and brought out a personal calling card. He handed it to Bill. "There's liable to be some trouble," he added. "If you get in trouble, here's my card."

Webster jumped back again at the sound of footsteps shuffling near the door. He hastily hid the brandy flask and three cups, and not a moment too soon for Castlebottom and an Uvan guard who lugged a stubby radium-plate gun around without the vaguest notion of why he carried it, burst into the office.

"So! Stealing my fiancÉ, you despicable freebooter," he cried, shaking his fist at Bill.

"Tut, Tut," Bill grinned. "Watch out. You're under arrest. Whatever you say'll be held against you."

Castlebottom smouldered pinkly. "Arrest! You'll be under arrest. I've radioed the Patrol to rescue Kitty and me."

"They can't land," said Bill.

"They'll land. They're getting a special permit from the government. I saw to that too."

"I say, what are you going to do about this, freebooter?" Kitty asked. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy the entire situation. She stood with her back to Webster, staring at the two younger men.

Bill grinned wryly. "You asked for it," he said. "Come on!" His arm swept around her slim, belted waist, urging her toward the door and out in the market-place.

"What are you doing?" cried Kitty.

"I'm doing a stitch in time, gal. I never run short of ideas. We're heading for the Uvan Thought Clinic. If I can get the right etheroel formula before the Patrol comes, I'll have Castlebottom where I want him. That formula means his job and I have an idea the Uvans don't give out duplicates."

"So that's freebooting?" The look that Kitty flashed Bill had something more in it than mere admiration.

"Hey, she's my girl!" Castlebottom bleated from the doorway. He stood there powerless for the Uvan guard's radium gun was poking a little valley in his stomach.

"Keep a sharp eye on him, Webster," Bill shouted back. "Dangerous type!"

A preposterous gurgle choked up Castlebottom's throat as Bill Petrie and Kitty Carlton disappeared, hand in hand, beyond the square.

The Uvan Thought Clinic was housed in a pale amber building. It contained twelve main halls, one dedicated to each of the major sciences. In an outer-reception room, an ancient Uvan whose resin-hard body was rapidly flaking away, fastened a pair of pearl gray eyes on Bill Petrie as he presented his credentials.

"Chemistry," said the oldster.

"Fuel," answered Bill.

The old Uvan led the way to a circular chamber. There, after elaborate preparations, he sat himself on a sort of throne that floated in a bed of pure mercury.

Kitty gripped Bill's hand, excitedly. "What's that for?" she asked.

"Don't know," Bill replied. "Maybe it insulates him from contact with matter. He can think better in the abstract."

The old Uvan nodded and sat rigidly upon the throne. Suddenly the lights dimmed within the chamber, leaving only a suspended glow that was like the infinite apartness and silence of the distant universe.

"I am suitable for thought," the old Uvan spoke in a vague tone. "Give me your equals."

Bill squeezed Kitty's arm, whispering, "I'm going to try something just to see how this works." He faced the Uvan and spoke aloud. "I have two equals. The first is something that my Boss needs. The second is for the Fuel Monopoly. Here's the first."

Bill handed the Uvan a prepared slip. It asked for a chemical formula which would react on the physical body of Castlebottom in a certain manner, producing a specified result. For a second the Uvan considered the slip, absorbing the requirements. Sudden lights glowed in the segmented grape-cells composing the Uvan's head. The lights shifted from one cell to another, flickering here and there.

Abruptly, all the lights went out but a small purplish glow in the grape-cell over the Uvan's right ear. "He's got the answer," Bill whispered.

"MgSO₄,7N₂O equals your problem," said the Uvan.

"Good!" Bill gasped. "Great Comets, these fellows never miss."

"But what's it the formula for?" Kitty asked.

"Epsom salts!"

"And the second equals?" demanded the vague-voiced Uvan.

Bill thrust a second slip forward. The one requiring a formula for synthetic etheroel. Again the lights, blinking like bulbs in a bank of electric lights, hopped from segment to segment in the Uvan's head, feeling around, searching for the cell that contained the correct answer.