Triplicate Twisteroo

Sentence

Charley Dalton, spaceman once of Earth, had within an hour of his landing on the second planet of the star Antares committed a most serious offense. He had killed an Antarian. On most planets murder is a misdemeanor; on some it is a praiseworthy act. But on Antares II it is a capital crime.

"I sentence you to death," said the solemn Antarian judge. "Death by blaster fire at dawn tomorrow." No appeal from the sentence was allowed.

Charley was led to the Suite of the Condemned.

The suite turned out to have 18 palatial rooms, each well stocked with' a wide variety of food and drink, couches and everything else he could possibly wish for, including a beautiful woman on each of the couches.

"I'll be damned," said Charley.

The Antarian guard bowed low. He said, "It is the custom of our planet. On the last night of a man condemned to die at dawn these arrangements are made. He is given everything he can possibly wish for."

"Almost worth it," Charley said. "Say, I'd just landed when I got into that scrap and I didn't check my planet guide. How long is a night here? How many hours does it take this planet to revolve?"

"Hours?" said the guard. "That must be an Earth term. I will phone the Astronomer Royal for a time comparison between your planet and ours."

He phoned, asked the question, listened. He told Charley Dalton. "Your planet Earth makes 93 revolutions around your sun Sol during one period of darkness on Antares II."

In other words, thought Charley. one Antares night is equal to 93 Earth years. He whistled softly to himself and wondered if he'd make it. The Antarian guard, whose life span was a bit over 20,000 years, bowed with grave sympathy for the condemned man and withdrew.

Charley Dalton started the long night's grind of eating, drinking, etcetera, although not in precisely that order; the women were very beautiful and he'd been in space a long time.

Dr. Michaelson was showing his wife, whose name was Mrs. Michaelson, around his combination laboratory and greenhouse. It was the first time she had been there in several months and quite a bit of new equipment had been added.

"You were really serious then, John," she asked him finally, "when you told me you were experimenting in communication with flowers? I thought you were joking."

"Not at all," said Dr. Michaelson. "Contrary to popular belief, flowers do have at least a degree of intelligence."

"But surely they can't talk!"

"Not as we talk. But, contrary to popular belief, they do communicate. Telepathically, as it were, and in thought pictures rather than in words."

"Among themselves, perhaps, but --;"

"Contrary to popular belief, my dear, even human-floral communication is possible, although thus far I have been able to establish only one-way communication. That is, I can catch their thoughts but not send messages from my mind to theirs."

"But – how does it work, John?"

"Contrary to popular belief," said her husband, "thoughts, both human and floral, are electromagnetic waves that can be--Wait, it will be easier to show you, my dear."

He called to his assistant who was working at the far end of the room. "Miss Wilson, will you please bring the communicator?"

"Miss Wilson brought the communicator. It had a headband with a complex of wires that led to a slender rod with an insulated handle. Dr. Michaelson put the headband on his wife's head and the rod in her hand.

"Quite simple to use," he told her. "Hold the rod near a flower and it acts as an antenna to pick up the thoughts. And you will find out that, contrary to popular belief--"

But Mrs. Michaelson was not listening to her husband. She was holding the rod near a pot of daisies on the window sill. After a moment she put down the rod and took a small pistol from her purse. She shot first her husband and then his assistant, Miss Wilson.

Contrary to popular belief, sometimes daisies do tell.

Politeness

Rance Hendrix, alien psychology specialist with the third Venusian expedition, trudged wearily across the hot sands to find a Venusian and, for the fifth time, to try to make friends with one. A discouraging task, four previous failures had taught him. Experts with the previous Venusian expeditions had also failed.

Not that Venusians were hard to find but apparently they simply didn't give a damn for Earthmen or have the slightest inclination to be friendly. It seemed more than ordinarily strange that they weren't sociable, since they spoke our language: some telepathic ability let them understand what was said to them in any terrestrial language and to reply in kind – but unkindly.

One was coming, carrying a shovel.

"Greetings, Venusian," said Hendrix cheerfully.

"Good-bye, Earthman," said the Venusian, walking on past.

Feeling both foolish and annoyed, Hendrix hurried along after him, having to run to keep pace with the Venusian's long strides. "Hey," he said, "why don't you talk to us?"

"I am talking to you," said the Venusian. "Little as I enjoy it. Please go away."

He stopped and began to dig for korvil's eggs, paying no further attention.

Hendrix glared at him in frustration. Always the same pattern, no matter what Venusian they tried. Every approach in the textbooks of alien psychology had failed.

And the sand was burning hot under his feet and the air, although breathable, had a tinge of formaldehyde that hurl his lungs. He gave up, and lost his temper.

"Aw go yourself!" he shouted. A biological impossibility, of course, for an Earthman.

But Venusians are bisexual. The Venusian turned in delighted wonder; for the first time an Earthman had given him the only greeting that is considered truly cordial on Venus.

He returned the compliment with a wide blue smile, dropped his shovel and sat down to talk. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship and of understanding between Earth and Venus.