Bill 3 - on the Planet of Bottled Brains Read Online Free PDF Page B

of us was able to have children, though I can assure you, the men tried every bit as hard as the women. The results? Zilch. Therefore we're always on the lookout for likely bits of protoplasm in which we can house unborn members of our race.”
    “I hear what you're saying,” Bill said, “and I don't think I like it.”
    “There's nothing personal about it,” the doctor said.
    “Nothing personal about what?” Bill asked, fearing the worst.
    “Nothing personal about our decision to make use of your body. Assuming you fail the intelligence test, that is.”
    “You're going a little too fast for me,” Bill said. “What intelligence test?”
    “Didn't Illyria mention it to you? We require of all visitors to our planet to take an intelligence test. Those who fail get reused.”
    Bill saw that he had been correct to fear the worst. Even now, before he knew what the worst was, exactly, he could see that it was going to be a bad sort of worst.
    “What's the intelligence test?” he asked.
    “Just a few simple questions.”
    The doctor then rattled off a sentence which Bill didn't understand even when it was translated into English for him by his translator. The sentence contained words like “cosine” and “square root of minus one” and “log log” and “sigma” and “rhomboid” and other words that Bill didn't even recognize as English. Temporizing, he asked if he could have the thing written out.
    The next question involved imaginary numbers, transfinite numbers, Kantor's number, and several other numbers, all applied to something called lobachevskian geometry. Bill failed this one too. He fared no better on any of the other questions.
    “Well, old chap,” the doctor said, “no offense, but the results of our tests show that you have an intelligence so minuscule as to not even show on our charts.”
    “It's just math,” Bill said, “I was never able to do math. But you could quiz me on geography, for example, or history —”
    “Sorry,” the doctor said, “the only test we use is the mathematical one. So much more precise, you know.”
    “Yes, I know,” Bill groaned. “No, wait a minute! I'm just as smart as anybody here! Maybe smarter — and I got medals to prove it. I'm a hero, a galactic hero awarded the highest awards awardable by the military. I just don't happen to be from a race that does math in its head. Most of us don't, that is.”
    “I really am sorry,” the doctor said. “And also, PS, we are not so keen on military awards. You are a fairly amiable, albeit stupid, sentient being, and so keen at times is the expression on your face that one could almost believe you understand what is being said to you. Too bad. It's the protoplasm vat for you, my lad.”
    “What happens there?” Bill moaned.
    “We have a special process that dedifferentiates your special-purpose cells, thus rendering you fit for rebirth by one of the Tsurisians. The nutrient baths were to soften up your skin for the protoplasm vat in case the intelligence test turned out the way it did. A simple precaution that is now paying off.”
    Bill swore and cursed and prayed, and fought and kicked and foamed at the mouth. But it was no good. The doctors were adamant. And a hell of a lot stronger en masse. They seized him, struggling and screaming, rushed him out of his room and down the corridor into a room where a special holding tank bubbled and frothed. Bill bubbled and frothed as well but resistance was useless. They splashed him into the tank.
    “This will soften you up even further, and you will enjoy it,” the doctor said with obvious insincerity.
    The next day they strapped him to a wheelchair and wheeled him down the hall. Past a room with its door open. Inside was a huge vat of protoplasm, colored a sort of undigested greenish brown. It was rather repellent and looked more than a little bit like an octopus that had lost its stiffening. The protoplasm bubbled and gurgled, throwing up turgid waves now and