Squee
They sang with their heads thrown back, “_The truth is marching on!_”
The song came to an end with another burst of notes from Jacobsen’s
zither. “First time I ever heard that song really sung,” he observed to
nobody in particular. “Sung right, I mean.”
* * * * *
The cabin began to fill with the babble of excited talk. Neil put up
his hand as if to stop it. “There’s just one thing,” he said. “It
doesn’t bother me, but some people might consider it a drawback. You’d
better know about it now.” He seemed to have forgotten his suggestion
that the captain break out the liquor to celebrate.
“You mean--you said they’d be monsters at first. Will they always be
deformed in some way?” Clancy asked. Very softly, Jacobsen played the
first few notes of a song that had been popular when the ship had left
earth. Its title was _A Cross-Eyed Girl Would Be a Pretty Girl_.
“No, nothing like that. We’ll be able to get them straight and
well-formed. But I haven’t been able--and there are strong theoretical
reasons for thinking nobody will ever be able--to produce an artificial
human zygote that doesn’t contain the X-chromosome.”
“We’re not cytologists, Dr. Neil,” said Captain Ambarzumian. “Please
explain yourself.”
“Very well.” Neil sat down in his place at table again. He seemed to be
enjoying himself.
* * * * *
“Only spermatozoa contain the X-chromosome,” he said. “Ova do not.
If it were possible to get a human ovum before the meiotic division
occurred, and induce it to go through its embryonic development to
maturity without fertilization, it would give rise to a female.
“Spermatozoa are of two kinds, those which contain the X-chromosome and
those which do not. They are produced in the testes in approximately
equal quantities. That is why human males and females are born--used to
be born--in approximately equal numbers.
“As I said, I have been unable to produce an artificial human zygote
that does not contain the X-chromosome. Apparently there is such an
antipathy between the cell walls of two sperms, neither of which
contains the X-chromosomes, that it is impossible to get them to pair
their chromosomes properly. Only X and non-X will pair. Nor does it
appear feasible to eliminate the X-chromosome from the zygote after it
has come into existence. Any such attempt makes the artificial human
fertilized egg break down completely.
“It looks as if our zygotes were all going to have to contain the
X-chromosome.” They looked at each other blankly. Neil’s words seemed
to mean something; they weren’t sure what it was. They weren’t sure
they wanted to know.
“Can’t you put it in nontechnical terms, Neil?” asked Captain
Ambarzumian. “What does that mean?”
“We’ll be able to produce human beings. But they’ll all have to be
produced from zygotes that contain the X-chromosome. So they’ll all be
males.”
* * * * *
What they talked about was whether Neil might be lying. “But why would
he lie?” somebody--it might be Venner--would say. “He’s a scientist. He
wouldn’t tell lies in a thing where he’d be caught out.”
“Did you see the expression on his face when he was telling us the bad
news?” somebody--it was usually Adams--would answer. “He enjoyed it;
he likes the idea of a world without women. He could perfectly well be
lying. Look whose son he is.”
It was during one of these discussions that Adams asked, “What happened
to old man Neil, anyhow? I know he’s dead, but I never heard the real
details. Some people say one thing and some another. I was only twelve
when the plague killed ... everybody.”
“He was torn to pieces by a mob about two months after the last woman
in North America died,” Venner answered. “I mean, literally torn to
pieces. The authorities didn’t even try to stop the mob; I saw a
telecast of his death.”
“That must have been good watching,” said Adams.
“Well....”
* * * * *
“He was the worst man who ever lived,” Adams said. He turned in his
bunk. They all spent a good deal of time in their bunks now; it was
as if they didn’t have enough energy to sit up. “To kill off all the
enemy’s women to win a war isn’t war: it’s murder.”
“Of course his idea wasn’t to kill all of them,” Venner answered. “He
was trying--what was that expression they used?--trying to negotiate
from a position of maximum strength. If the enemy didn’t want all
their women killed, they’d have to surrender. Then they’d be given the
vaccine.
“They did surrender; but by that time, the virus had mutated in the
enemy women’s tissues. It was a lot faster and more deadly than it had
been; it swept over the whole world. The vaccine wasn’t any use against
it in its new form, and that was that.”
“He was the worst man who ever lived,” Adams repeated.
“He was a bad man, certainly,” answered Venner, “but he wasn’t much
worse than a lot of others. That bomb they used to have--they kept on
testing it, even though they knew there was a good chance their tests
were damaging human germ plasm permanently. They came within an inch
of using the bomb in battle. In fact, one of the arguments in favor of
bacteriological warfare was that it was more humane.”
“Humane,” said Clancy.
“That’s what they said. No, in the end we’re none of us much different
from Neil. We’re all of us responsible.”
* * * * *
Adams raised himself on one elbow and looked at Venner. “How am I
responsible?” he asked. “I was twelve years old at the time of the
plague. Twelve years! How am I responsible?”
“We’re all of us too aggressive,” Venner replied. “Have we still
learned to take a blow and not strike back, even if striking back means
ruining ourselves as well as the enemy? Put it another way. Have we yet
learned there are some things you mustn’t do even to win?”
Adams made a disgusted noise. “I wish you’d shut up. Be saintly, if you
want to. When somebody hurts me, I want to hurt him back. You make me
sick.”
“I know. That’s just it.”
* * * * *
As the discussions continued, their apathy increased. Finally
Ambarzumian called Jacobsen in for a conference.
“Can’t you do something to cheer them up, Jacobsen?” he demanded. “Play
some on your zither. Morale was never this bad before. If they get much
more depressed, they’ll be making suicide tries.”
“I don’t feel like cheering anybody up, Sir,” Jacobsen said shortly.
Since Neil had made his announcement, his big frame seemed to have
shrunk in on itself. He looked considerably older and smaller than he
had two weeks ago.
“None of us feels very well,” Captain Ambarzumian answered, “but we’ve
got to have our full crew to get home at all. When it comes to our
landing, even Neil will have his duties. If we’re short-handed, landing
will be very ... difficult.”
There was a silence. Then Jacobsen said, without disrespect, “Who
cares?”
Ambarzumian was too wise to rebuke him. “We’ve got to keep hoping,”
he answered. “Neil’s a good man, of course. Brilliant. The Council
wouldn’t have sent him with us otherwise. But he’s not the only
cytologist. There’s Rausch ... Trenton ... Yee Ching ... Scheel. Neil
could be wrong; he’s got to be wrong. The important thing is getting
home with the Ganymedean cell material; then the others can work with
it. Teamwork might accomplish a lot.--Look whose son he is.”
Jacobsen chewed his lower lip. “Well....”
“You can have anything you want,” Ambarzumian told him. “Except the
emergency landing stores. Perhaps you could rig up some sort of a toy
to divert them. A puzzle machine, for example. Anything like that.”
* * * * *
Jacobsen nodded. He left the Captain’s cabin and went back to the
forecastle, where he sat for half a morning, thinking. Then he went to
the storeroom and rummaged about. He came out with an assortment of
metal parts, the last three big flashlight batteries, and a number of
relays and electron tubes. He worked for a long time over them. What he
came up with, finally, was the Squee.
He introduced his creation to his shipmates at the end of the short,
morose meal they called dinner. He began by emptying a handful of metal
nuts into a small dish. When he saw the crew was watching him, though
apathetically, he reached under his chair and produced the Squee.
The little robot was about fifteen inches high, housed in a reasonably
accurate squirrel-shaped case. (Jacobsen had had to do a lot of
hammering to get the curves right.) It had two beady eyes that were
actually ball-bearings touched with black paint, and a nicely-curled,
bushy tail that Jacobsen had gone to a lot of pains to make from
some spun-glass insulation. Around its waist there was a full, very
abbreviated red skirt that had been the hem of a bandana handkerchief.
Considering the difficulties Jacobsen had labored under, it was a
thoroughly engaging robot squirrel.
It stood for a moment balanced on its hind paws beside Jacobsen’s
plate. Then it said--a fair proficiency in ventriloquism was among
Jacobsen’s talents--“Hello, boys,” in a high, squeaky, indubitably
feminine voice. There was a silence. The success of Jacobsen’s
project--other things, too--hung in the balance. At last Clancy said,
“Hello yourself. What’s your name?”
“Squee,” the robot answered. “And I like nuts. _I like nuts_. I think
I’ll go get me a nut.”
* * * * *
Jacobsen touched something on the creature’s underbelly. It stood for
a moment, swaying. Then it bounded lightly over the table to the dish
of metal nuts. It picked one up. It turned it between its forepaws. It
raced gracefully back across the table to the large box Jacobsen had
put by his elbow. It went inside the box and left the nut.
The performance was repeated twice more. Then the Squee halted beside
Jacobsen. “I just love nuts,” it said in its high voice.
“Will she come for a nut if I hold it out for her?” Clancy asked
eagerly.
“Sure, if your nut is nearer than the ones in the dish.”
Clancy picked up a nut and pushed the dish to the extreme end of the
table. Everyone was smiling. “Here, Squee,” he said coaxingly. “Come
and get it. Nice nut. Nice nut for Squee.”
The robot squirrel seemed to hesitate. She turned her head from side to
side. Then she raced toward Clancy, seemed to snatch the nut from his
fingers, and bounded back to her box. “Thank you, Clancy,” she said in
a somewhat muffled voice when she was inside.
Clancy laughed. “Some squirrel,” he said warmly.
“_Thank_ you, Clancy,” came the answer from within the box.
* * * * *
That night their after-dinner discussions turned on something
considerably different from the usual weak arguments about Neil’s
trustworthiness. What they wanted to know was whether the robot was
properly known as _the_ Squee, or simply Squee. Jacobsen, appealed to,
refused to commit himself. The discussions grew warm, even heated; but
it was plain the participants were enjoying themselves.
Gradually, it became the customary thing for the after-dinner interval
to be devoted to the antics of the Squee. With Jacobsen’s deft fingers
helping, she “learned” to jump to the shoulder of the man who called
her (provided he had a metal plate on his shoulder), to roll over, to
sit up and beg for nuts. The men themselves suggested extra tricks for
her to “learn.” Morale was improving amazingly.
For the first two weeks or so, Neil seemed unconscious of the
Squee’s existence. He still messed with the crew, but even a man as
thick-skinned and arrogant as he was must have been aware of the
hostility with which they regarded him, and have found it slightly