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Title: Western Science Is So Wonderful
Author: Smith, Cordwainer [Linebarger, Paul Myron Anthony]
   (1913-1966)
Date of first publication: December 1958
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   If, December 1958
   [Buffalo, New York: Quinn Publishing Co.]
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 23 April 2017
Date last updated: 23 April 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1427

This ebook was produced by Al Haines


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






  WESTERN SCIENCE
  IS SO WONDERFUL


  _The tale of a Martian and
  three Communists, told with
  tongue firmly in cheek._


  BY CORDWAINER SMITH




The Martian was sitting at the top of a granite cliff.  In order to
enjoy the breeze better he had taken on the shape of a small fir tree.
The wind always felt very pleasant through non-deciduous needles.

At the bottom of the cliff stood an American, the first the Martian had
ever seen.

The American extracted from his pocket a fantastically ingenious
device.  It was a small metal box with a nozzle which lifted up and
produced an immediate flame.  From this miraculous device the American
readily lit a tube of bliss-giving herbs.  The Martian understood that
these were called _cigarettes_ by the Americans.  As the American
finished lighting his cigarette, the Martian changed his shape to that
of a fifteen-foot, red-faced, black-whiskered Chinese demagogue, and
shouted to the American in English, "Hello, friend!"

The American looked up and almost dropped his teeth.

The Martian stepped off the cliff and floated gently down toward the
American, approaching slowly so as not to affright him too much.

Nevertheless, the American did seem to be concerned, because he said,
"You're not real, are you?  You can't be.  Or can you?"

Modestly the Martian looked into the mind of the American and realized
that fifteen-foot Chinese demagogues were not reassuring visual images
in an everyday American psychology.  He peeked modestly into the mind
of the American, seeking a reassuring image.  The first image he saw
was that of the American's mother, so the Martian promptly changed into
the form of the American's mother and answered, "What is real, darling?"

With this the American turned slightly green and put his hand over his
eyes.  The Martian looked once again into the mind of the American and
saw a slightly confused image.

When the American opened his eyes, the Martian had taken on the form of
a Red Cross girl halfway through a strip-tease act.  Although the
maneuver was designed to be pleasant, the American was not reassured.
His fear began to change into anger and he said, "What the hell are
you?"

The Martian gave up trying to be obliging.  He changed himself into a
Chinese Nationalist major general with an Oxford education and said in
a distinct British accent.  "I'm by way of being one of the local
characters, a bit on the Supernatural side, you know.  I do hope you do
not mind.  Western science is so wonderful that I had to examine that
fantastic machine you have in your hand.  Would you like to chat a bit
before you go on?"

The Martian caught a confused glimpse of images in the American's mind.
They seemed to be concerned with something called _prohibition_,
something else called "on the wagon," and the reiterated question.
"How the hell did _I_ get here?"

Meanwhile the Martian examined the lighter.

He handed it back to the American, who looked stunned.

"Very fine magic," said the Martian.  "We do not do anything of that
sort in these hills.  I am a fairly low class Demon.  I see that you
are a captain in the illustrious army of the United States.  Allow me
to introduce myself.  I am the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate
Incarnation of a Lohan.  Do you have time for a chat?"

The American looked at the Chinese Nationalist uniform.  Then he looked
behind him.  His Chinese porters and interpreter lay like bundles of
rags on the meadowy floor of the valley; they had all fainted dead
away.  The American held himself together long enough to say, "What is
a Lohan?"

"A Lohan is an Arhat," said the Martian.

The American did not take in this information either and the Martian
concluded that something must have been missing from the usual
amenities of getting acquainted with American officers.  Regretfully
the Martian erased all memory of himself from the mind of the American
and from the minds of the swooned Chinese.  He planted himself back on
the cliff top, resumed the shape of a fir tree, and woke the entire
gathering.  He saw the Chinese interpreter gesticulating at the
American and he knew that the Chinese was saying, "There are Demons in
these hills..."

The Martian rather liked the hearty laugh with which the American
greeted this piece of superstitious Chinese nonsense.

He watched the party disappear as they went around the miraculously
beautiful little Lake of the Right-Mouthed River.

That was in 1945.

The Martian spent many thoughtful hours trying to materialize a
lighter, but he never managed to create one which did not dissolve back
into some unpleasant primordial effluvium within hours.

Then it was 1955.  The Martian heard that a Soviet officer was coming,
and he looked forward with genuine pleasure to making the acquaintance
of another person from the miraculously up-to-date Western world.



Peter Farrer was a vulgar German.

The vulgar Germans are about as much Russian as the Pennsylvania Dutch
are Americans.

They have lived in Russia for more than two hundred years, but the
terrible bitterness of the Second World War led to the breakup of most
of their communities.

Farrer himself had fared well in this.  After holding the
noncommissioned rank of _yefreitor_ in the Red Army for some years he
had become a sub-lieutenant.  In a technikum he had studied geology and
survey.

The chief of the Soviet military mission to the province of Yunnan in
the People's Republic of China had said to him, "Farrer, you are
getting a real holiday.  There is no danger in this trip, but we do
want to get an estimate on the feasibility of building a secondary
mountain highway along the rock cliffs west of Lake Pakou.  I think
well of you, Farrer.  You have lived down your German name and you're a
good Soviet citizen and officer.  I know that you will not cause any
trouble with our Chinese allies or with the mountain people among whom
you must travel.  Go easy with them, Farrer.  They are very
superstitious.  We need their full support, but we can take our time to
get it.  The liberation of India is still a long way off, but when we
must move to help the Indians throw off American imperialism we do not
want to have any soft areas in our rear.  Do not push things too hard,
Farrer.  Be sure that you get a good technical job done, but that you
make friends with everyone other than imperialist reactionary elements."

Farrer nodded very seriously.  "You mean, comrade Colonel, that I must
make friends with _everything_?"

"Everything," said the colonel firmly.

Farrer was young and he liked doing a bit of crusading on his own.
"I'm a militant atheist, Colonel.  Do I have to be pleasant to priests?"

"Priests, too," said the colonel, "especially priests."

The colonel looked sharply at Farrer.  "You make friends with
everything, everything except women.  You hear me, comrade?  Stay out
of trouble."

Farrer saluted and went back to his desk to make preparations for the
trip.



Three weeks later Farrer was climbing up past the small cascades which
led to the River of the Golden Sands, the Chinshachiang, as the Long
River or Yangtze was known locally.

Beside him there trotted Party Secretary Kungsun.  Kungsun was a Peking
aristocrat who had joined the Communist Party in his youth.
Sharp-faced, sharp-voiced, he made up for his aristocracy by being the
most violent Communist in all of northwestern Yunnan.  Though they had
only a squad of troops and a lot of local bearers for their supplies,
they did have an officer of the old People's Liberation Army to assure
their military well-being and to keep an eye on Farrer's technical
competence.  Comrade Captain Li, roly-poly and jolly, sweated wearily
behind them as they climbed the steep cliffs.

Li called after them, "If you want to be heroes of labor let's keep
climbing, but if you are following sound military logistics let's all
sit down and drink some tea.  We can't possibly get to Pakouhu before
nightfall anyhow."

Kungsun looked back contemptuously.  The ribbon of soldiers and bearers
reached back two hundred yards, making a snake of dust clutched to the
rocky slope of the mountain.  From this perspective he saw the caps of
the soldiers and the barrels of their rifles pointing upward toward him
as they climbed.  He saw the towel-wrapped heads of the liberated
porters and he knew without speaking to them that they were cursing him
in language just as violent as the language with which they had cursed
their capitalist oppressors in days gone past.  Far below them all the
thread of the Chinshachiang was woven like a single strand of gold into
the gray-green of the twilight valley floor.

He spat at the army captain, "If you had your way about it, we'd still
be sitting there in an inn drinking the hot tea while the men slept."

The captain did not take offense.  He had seen many party secretaries
in his day.  In the New China it was much safer to be a captain.  A few
of the party secretaries he had known had got to be very important men.
One of them had even got to Peking and had been assigned a whole Buick
to himself together with three Parker 51 pens.  In the minds of the
Communist bureaucracy this represented a state close to absolute bliss.
Captain Li wanted none of that.  Two square meals a day and an endless
succession of patriotic farm girls, preferably chubby ones, represented
his view of a wholly liberated China.

Farrer's Chinese was poor, but he got the intent of the argument.  In
thick but understandable mandarin he called, half laughing at them,
"Come along, comrades.  We may not make it to the lake by nightfall,
but we certainly can't bivouac on this cliff either."  He whistled,
_Ich hatt' ein Kameraden_ through his teeth as he pulled ahead of
Kungsun and led the climb on up the mountain.

Thus it was Farrer who first came over the lip of the cliff and met the
Martian face to face.



This time the Martian was ready.  He remembered his disappointing
experience with the American, and he did not want to affright his guest
so as to spoil the social nature of the occasion.  While Farrer had
been climbing the cliff, the Martian had been climbing Farrer's mind,
chasing in and out of Farrer's memories as happily as a squirrel chases
around inside an immense oak tree.  From Farrer's own mind he had
extracted a great many pleasant memories.  He had then hastened back to
the top of the cliff and had incorporated these in very
substantial-looking phantoms.

Farrer got halfway across the lip of the cliff before he realized what
he was looking at.  Two Soviet military trucks were parked in a tiny
glade.  Each of them had tables in front of it.  One of the tables was
set with a very elaborate Russian _sakouska_ (the Soviet equivalent of
a smorgasbord).  The Martian hoped he would be able to keep these
objects materialized while Farrer ate them, but he was afraid they
might disappear each time Farrer swallowed them because the Martian was
not very well acquainted with digestive processes of human beings and
did not want to give his guest a violent stomachache by allowing him to
deposit through his esophagus and into his stomach objects of extremely
improvised and uncertain chemical makeup.

The first truck had a big red flag on it with white Russian letters
reading "WELCOME TO THE HEROES OF BRYANSK."

The second truck was even better.  The Martian could see that Farrer
was very fond of women, so he had materialized four very pretty Soviet
girls, a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, and an albino just to make it
interesting.  The Martian did not trust himself to make them all speak
the correctly feminine and appealing forms of the Russian language, so
having materialized them he set them all in lounge chairs and put them
to sleep.  He had wondered what form he himself should take and decided
that it would be very hospitable to assume the appearance of
Mao-tze-tung.

Farrer did not come on over the cliff.  He stayed where he was.  He
looked at the Martian and the Martian said, very oilily, "Come on up.
We are waiting for you."

"Who the hell are you?" barked Farrer.

"I am a pro-Soviet Demon," said the apparent Mr. Mao-tze-tung, "and
these are materialized Communist hospitality arrangements.  I hope you
like them."

At this point both Kungsun and Li appeared.  Li climbed up the left
side of Farrer, Kungsun on the right.  All three stopped, gaping.

Kungsun recovered his wits first.  He recognized Mao-tze-tung.  He
never passed up a chance to get acquainted with the higher command of
the Communist Party.  He said in a very weak, strained, incredulous
voice, "Mr. Party Chairman Mao, I never thought that we would see you
here in these hills, or are you you, and if you aren't you, who are
you?"

"I am not your party chairman," said the Martian.  "I am merely a local
Demon who has strong pro-Communist sentiments and would like to meet
companionable people like yourselves."

At this point Li fainted and would have rolled back down the cliff
knocking over soldiers and porters if the Martian had not reached out
his left arm, concurrently changing the left arm into the shape of a
python, picking up the unconscious Li and resting his body gently
against the side of the picnic truck.  The Soviet sleeping beauties
slept on.  The python turned back into an arm.

Kungsun's face had turned completely white; since he was a pale and
pleasant ivory color to start with, his whiteness had a very marked
tinge.

"I think this _wang-pa_ is a counter-revolutionary impostor," he said
weakly, "but I don't know what to do about him.  I am glad that the
Chinese People's Republic has a representative from the Soviet Union to
instruct us in difficult party procedure."

Farrer snapped, "If he is a goose, he is a Chinese goose.  He is not a
Russian goose.  You'd better not call him that dirty name.  He seems to
have some powers that do work.  Look at what he did to Li."

The Martian decided to show off his education and said very
conciliatorily, "If I am a _wang-pa_ you are a _wang-pen_."  He added
brightly, in the Russian language, "That's an ingrate, you know.  Much
worse than an illegitimate one.  Do you like my shape, comrade Farrer?
Do you have a cigarette lighter with you?  Western science is so
wonderful, I can never make very solid things, and you people make
airplanes, atom bombs, and all sorts of refreshing entertainments of
that kind."

Farrer reached into his pocket, groping for his lighter.

A scream sounded behind him.  One of the Chinese enlisted men had left
the stopped column behind and had stuck his head over the edge of the
cliff to see what was happening.  When he saw the trucks and the figure
of Mao-tze-tung he began shrieking, "There are devils here!  There are
devils here!"

From centuries of experience, the Martian knew there was no use trying
to get along with the local people unless they were very, very young or
very, very old.  He walked to the edge of the cliff so that all the men
could see him.  He expanded the shape of Mao-tze-tung until it was
thirty-five feet high.  Then he changed himself into the embodiment of
an ancient Chinese god of war with whiskers, ribbons, and sword tassels
blowing in the breeze.  They all fainted dead away as he had intended.
He packed them snugly against the rocks so that none of them would fall
back down the slope.  Then he took on the shape of a Soviet WAC--a
rather pretty little blonde with sergeant's insignia--and
re-materialized himself beside Farrer.

By this point Farrer had his lighter out.

The pretty little blonde said to Farrer, "Do you like this shape
better?"

Farrer said, "I don't believe this at all.  I am a militant atheist.  I
have fought against superstition all my life."  Farrer was twenty-four.

The Martian said, "I don't think you like me being a girl.  It bothers
you, doesn't it?"

"Since you do not exist you cannot bother me.  But if you don't mind
could you please change your shape again?"

The Martian took on the appearance of a chubby little Buddha.  He knew
this was a little impious, but he felt Farrer give a sigh of relief.
Even Li seemed cheered up, now that the Martian had taken on a proper
religious form.

"Listen, you obscene demonic monstrosity," snarled Kungsun, "this is
the Chinese People's Republic.  You have absolutely no business taking
on supernatural images or conducting unatheistic activities.  Please
abolish yourself and those illusions yonder.  What do you want, anyhow?"

"I would like," said the Martian mildly, "to become a member of the
Chinese Communist Party."

Farrer and Kungsun stared at each other.  Then they both spoke at once,
Farrer in Russian and Kungsun in Chinese.  "But we can't let you in the
Party."

Kungsun said, "If you're a demon you don't exist, and if you do exist
you're illegal."

The Martian smiled.  "Take some refreshments.  You may change your
minds.  Would you like a girl?" he said, pointing at the assorted
Russian beauties who still slept in their lounge chairs.

But Kungsun and Farrer shook their heads.

With a sigh the Martian dematerialized the girls and replaced them with
three striped Siberian tigers.  The tigers approached.

One tiger stopped cozily behind the Martian and sat down.  The Martian
sat on him.  Said the Martian brightly, "I like tigers to sit on.
They're so comfortable.  Have a tiger."

Farrer and Kungsun were staring open-mouthed at their respective
tigers.  The tigers yawned at them and stretched out.

With a tremendous effort of will the two young men sat down on the
ground in front of their tigers.  Farrer sighed, "What do you want?  I
suppose you won this trick...."



Said the Martian, "Have a jug of wine."

He materialized a jug of wine and a porcelain cup in front of each,
including himself.  He poured himself a drink and looked at them
through shrewd, narrowed eyes.  "I would like to learn all about
Western science.  You see, I am a Martian student who was exiled here
to become the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan
and I have been here more than two thousand years, and I can only
perceive in a radius of ten leagues.  Western science is very
interesting.  If I could, I would like to be an engineering student,
but since I cannot leave this place I would like to join the Communist
Party and have many visitors come to see me."

By this time Kungsun made up his mind.  He was a Communist, but he was
also a Chinese--an aristocratic Chinese and a man well versed in the
folklore of his own country.  Kungsun used a politely archaic form of
the Peking court dialect when he spoke again in much milder terms,
"Honored, esteemed Demon, sir, it's just no use at all your trying to
get into the Communist Party.  I admit it is very patriotic of you as a
Chinese Demon to want to join the progressive group which leads the
Chinese people in their endless struggle against the vicious American
imperialists.  Even if you convinced me I don't think you can convince
the party authorities, esteemed sir.  The only thing for you to do in
our new Communist world of the New China is to become a
counter-revolutionary refugee and migrate to capitalist territory."

The Martian looked hurt and sullen.  He frowned at them as he sipped
his wine.  Behind him Li began snoring where he slept against the wheel
of a truck.

Very persuasively the Martian began to speak: "I see, young man, that
you're beginning to believe in me.  You don't have to recognize me.
Just believe in me a little bit.  I am happy to see that you, Party
Secretary Kungsun, are prepared to be polite.  I am not a Chinese
demon, since I was originally a Martian who was elected to the Lesser
Assembly of Concord, but who made an inopportune remark and who must
live on as the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan
for three hundred thousand springs and autumns before I can return.  I
expect to be around a very long time indeed.  On the other hand, I
would like to study engineering and I think it would be much better for
me to become a member of the Communist Party than to go to a strange
place."

Farrer had an inspiration.  Said he to the Martian, "I have an idea.
Before I explain it, though, would you please take those damned trucks
away and remove that _sakouska_?  It makes my mouth water and I'm very
sorry, but I just can't accept your hospitality."

The Martian complied with a wave of his hand.  The trucks and the
tables disappeared.  Li had been leaning against a truck.  His head
went thump against the grass.  He muttered something in his sleep and
then resumed his snoring.  The Martian turned back to his guests.

Farrer picked up the thread of his own thoughts.  "Leaving aside the
question of whether you exist or not, I can assure you that I know the
Russian Communist Party and my colleague, Comrade Kungsun here, knows
the Chinese Communist Party.  Communist parties are very wonderful
things.  They lead the masses in the fight against wicked Americans.
Do you realize that if we didn't fight on with the revolutionary
struggle all of us would have to drink coca-cola every day?"

"What is coca-cola?" asked the Demon.

"I don't know," replied Farrer.

"Then why be afraid to drink any?"

"Don't be irrelevant.  I hear that the capitalists make everybody drink
it.  The Communist Party cannot take time to open up supernatural
secretariats.  It would spoil irreligious campaigns for us to have a
demonic secretary.  I can tell you the Russian Communist Party won't
put up with it and our friend here will tell you there is no place in
the Chinese Communist Party.  We want you to be happy.  You seem to be
a very friendly demon.  Why don't you just go away?  The capitalists
will welcome you.  They are very reactionary and very religious.  You
might even find people there who would believe in you."

The Martian changed his shape from that of a roly-poly Buddha and
assumed the appearance and dress of a young Chinese man, a student of
engineering at the University of the Revolution in Peking.  In the
shape of the student he continued, "I don't want to be believed in.  I
want to study engineering, and I want to learn all about Western
science."

Kungsun came to Farrer's support.  He said, "It's just no use trying to
be a Communist engineer.  You look like a very absent-minded demon to
me and I think that even if you tried to pass yourself off as a human
being you would keep forgetting and changing shapes.  That would ruin
the morale of any class."

The Martian thought to himself that the young man had a point there.
He hated keeping any one particular shape for more than half an hour.
Staying in one bodily form made him itch.  He also liked to change
sexes every few times; it seemed sort of refreshing.  He did not admit
to the young man that Kungsun had scored a point with that remark about
shape-changing, but he nodded amiably at them and asked, "But how could
I get abroad?"

"Just go," said Kungsun, wearily.  "Just go.  You're a demon.  You can
do anything."

"I can't do that," snapped the student-Martian.  "I have to have
something to go by."

He turned to Farrer.  "It won't do any good, your giving me something.
If you gave me something Russian and I would end up in Russia, from
what you say they won't want to have a Communist Martian any more than
these Chinese people do.  I won't like to leave my beautiful lake
anyhow, but I suppose I will have to if I am to get acquainted with
Western science."

Farrer said, "I have an idea."  He took off his wristwatch and handed
it to the Martian.

The Martian inspected it.  Many years before, the watch had been
manufactured in the United States of America.  It had been traded by a
G.I. to a fraulein, by the fraulein's grandmother to a Red Army man for
three sacks of potatoes, and by the Red Army man for five hundred
rubles to Farrer when the two of them met in Kuibyshev.  The numbers
were painted with radium, as were the hands.  The second hand was
missing, so the Martian materialized a new one.  He changed the shape
of it several times before it fitted.  On the watch there was written
in English, "MARVIN WATCH COMPANY."  At the bottom of the face of the
watch there was the name of a town: "WATERBURY, CONN."

The Martian read it.  Said he to Farrer, "Where is this place
Waterbury, _Kahn_?"

"The Conn. is the short form of the name of one of the American states.
If you are going to be a reactionary capitalist that is a very good
place to be a capitalist in."

Still white-faced, but in a sickly ingratiating way, Kungsun added his
bit.  "I think you would like coca-cola.  It's very reactionary."

The student-Martian frowned.  He still held the watch in his hand.
Said he, "I don't care whether it's reactionary or not.  I want to be
in a very scientific place."

Farrer said, "You couldn't go any place more scientific than Waterbury,
Conn., especially Conn.--that's the most scientific place they have in
America and I'm sure they are very pro-Martian and you can join one of
the capitalist parties.  They won't mind.  But the Communist parties
would make a lot of trouble for you."

Farrer smiled and his eyes lit up.  "Furthermore," he added, as a
winning point, "you can keep my watch for yourself, for always."

The Martian frowned.  Speaking to himself the student-Martian said, "I
can see that Chinese Communism is going to collapse in eight years,
eight hundred years, or eighty thousand years.  Perhaps I'd better go
to this Waterbury, Conn."

The two young Communists nodded their heads vigorously and grinned.
They both smiled at the Martian.

"Honored, esteemed Martian, sir, please hurry along because I want to
get my men over the edge of the cliff before darkness falls.  Go with
our blessing."

The Martian changed shape.  He took on the image of an Arhat, a
subordinate disciple of Buddha.  Eight feet tall, he loomed above them.
His face radiated unearthly calm.  The watch, miraculously provided
with a new strap, was firmly strapped to his left wrist.

"Bless you, my boys," said he.  "I go to Waterbury."  And he did.



Farrer stared at Kungsun.  "What's happened to Li?"

Kungsun shook his head dazedly.  "I don't know.  I feel funny."

(In departing for that marvelous strange place, Waterbury, Conn., the
Martian had taken with him all their memories of himself.)

Kungsun walked to the edge of the cliff.  Looking over, he saw the men
sleeping.

"Look at that," he muttered.  He stepped to the edge of the dill and
began shouting: "Wake up, you fools, you turtles.  Haven't you any more
sense than to sleep on a cliff as nightfall approaches?"



The Martian concentrated all his powers on the location of Waterbury,
Conn.

He was the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan (or
an Arhat), and his powers were limited, impressive though they might
seem to outsiders.

With a shock, a thrill, a something of breaking, a sense of things done
and undone, he found himself in flat country.  Strange darkness
surrounded him.  Air, which he had never smelled before, flowed quietly
around him.  Farrer and Li, hanging on a cliff high above the
Chinshachiang, lay far behind him in the world from which he had
broken.  He remembered that he had left his shape behind.

Absent-mindedly he glanced down at himself to see what form he had
taken for the trip.

He discovered that he had arrived in the form of a small, laughing
Buddha seven inches high, carved in yellowed ivory.

"This will never do!" muttered the Martian to himself.  "I must take on
one of the local forms...."

He sensed around in his environment, groping telepathically for
interesting objects near him.

"Aha, a milk truck."

Thought he, Western science is indeed very wonderful.  Imagine a
machine made purely for the purpose of transporting milk!

Swiftly he transferred himself into a milk truck.

In the darkness, his telepathic senses had not distinguished the metal
of which the milk truck was made nor the color of the paint.

In order to remain inconspicuous, he turned himself into a milk truck
made of solid gold.  Then, without a driver, he started up his own
engine and began driving himself down one of the main highways leading
into Waterbury, Connecticut....  So if you happen to be passing through
Waterbury, Conn., and see a solid gold milk truck driving itself
through the streets, you'll know it's the Martian, otherwise the
1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan, and that he
still thinks Western Science is wonderful.



END






[End of Western Science Is So Wonderful, by Cordwainer Smith]
