Galactic Pot-Healer Read Online Free PDF Page A

tell whoever answers the call what’s developed.”
    The first QCA man said, “There isn’t anything legal that you could do to get paid thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles, Mr. Fernwright. It has to be illegal. That’s how we see it.”
    “Maybe there’re a hell of a lot of broken pots on Sirius five,” Joe said.
    “Bit of humor, there,” the first QCA man said tartly. He nodded to his companion, and the two of them opened the door and departed from his room. The door closed behind them.
    “Maybe it’s one gigantic pot,” Joe said loudly. “A pot the size of a planet. With fifty glazes and—” He gave up; they probably couldn’t hear him anyhow. And originally ornamented by the greatest graphic artist in Plabkian history, he thought. And it’s the only product of his genius left, and an earthquake has broken the pot, which is locally worshiped. So the whole Plabkian civilization has collapsed.
    Plabkian civilization. Hmm, he thought. Just how far developed are they on Sirius five? he asked himself. A good question.
    Going to the phone he dialed the encyclopedia number.
    “Good evening,” a robotic voice said. “What info do you require, sir or madam?”
    Joe said, “Give me a brief description of the social development on Sirius five.”
    Without the passing of even a tenth second the artificial voice said, “It is an ancient society which has seen better days. The current dominant species on the planet consists of what is called a Glimmung. This shadowy, enormous entity is not native to the planet; it migrated there several centuries ago, taking over from the feeble species such as wubs, werjes, klakes, trobes, and printers left over when the once-ruling master species, the so-called Fog-Things of antiquity, passed away.”
    “Glimmung—the Glimmung—is all-powerful?” Joe asked.
    “His power,” the encyclopedia’s voice said, “is sharply curtailed by a peculiar book, probably nonexistent, in which, it is alleged, everything which has been, is, and will be, is recorded.”
    Joe said, “Where did this book come from?”
    “You have used up your allotted quantity of information,” the voice said. And clicked off.
    Joe waited exactly three minutes and then redialed the number.
    “Good evening. What info do you require, sir or madam?”
    “The book on Sirius five,” Joe said. “Which is alleged to tell everything that has been—”
    “Oh, it’s you again. Well, your trick won’t work anymore; we store voice patterns now.” It rang off.
    That’s right, Joe realized. I remember reading in the newspaper about that. It was costing the government too much money the way it was—when we did what I tried to do just now. Nuts, he said to himself. Twenty-four hours before he could get any more free information. Of course, he could go to a private enterprise encyclopedia booth, to Mr. Encyclopedia. But it would cost as much as he had stored in hisasbestos bag: the government, when licensing the nonstateowned enterprises such as Mr. Attorney and Mr. Encyclopedia and Mr. Job, had seen to that.
    I think I got aced out, Joe Fernwright said to himself. As usual.
    Our society, he thought broodingly, is the perfect form of government.
Everyone
is aced out, in the end.

3
    When he reached his work cubicle the next morning he found a second special delivery letter waiting for him.
    SHIP OUT TO PLOWMAN’S PLANET, MR. FERNWRIGHT, WHERE YOU ARE NEEDED. YOUR LIFE WILL SIGNIFY SOMETHING; YOU WILL CREATE A PERMANENT ENDEAVOR WHICH WILL OUTLAST ME AS WELL AS YOU .
    Plowman’s Planet, Joe reflected. It rang a bell, although dimly. Absentmindedly, he dialed the encyclopedia’s number.
    “Is Plowman’s Planet—” he began, but the artificial voice interrupted him.
    “Not for another twelve hours. Goodby.”
    “Just one fact?” he said angrily. “I just want to find out if Sirius five and Plowman’s—” Click. The robot mechanism had rung off. Bastards, he thought. All robot servo-mechanisms and