50 in 50

"He lied. There were two of us and he volunteered to meet with you two, the only survivors and explain what had happened. I will bring the recording back to our planet. There will be great mourning at the destruction of your world."

"Thanks," Frank said, in a very unthankful voice. "It really makes me feel better. And you helped him blow up the world?"

The green man thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

" 'Help' is too strong a word. In the beginning I disagreed with his analysis of the situation. In the end I reluctantly agreed…"

"You helped. So now you go home and tell everyone what happened, and tell them that the survivors are building a new world and maybe you had better think of blowing us up too in case our descendants aren't as generous and understanding as we are. They might want to come and blow you up as a precautionary measure."

"No, really, I wouldn't advise a course of action like that…"

"But there is a possibility that it might be done in any case, despite your advice?"

"I hope not. But there is of course always the possibility…"

"Another green son of a bitch," Gwenn said, drawing a small pistol from her pocket and shooting the alien.

"That about sums it up," Frank said, sighing, looking at the crumpled body. "I suppose now we'll have to find their ship and kill any more of them that might be there."

"And then take the ship and go blow their planet up," Gwenn added.

"No other choice. As Horace said, we have a reputation for this sort of thing. Best to live up to it."

"I wouldn't be comfortable if we didn't," Gwenn said. "I would worry about our children and their children, you know. Best to get it over with."

"You're right of course. And after we blow them up then we'll teach the kids about turning the other cheek and that kind of thing. It will be all right then."

"Shall we go now?"

"I guess we had better," Gwenn said, looking around at the last little bit of the world. "It may be a long trip so the earlier we start the better. Do we want to bring the sheep?"

"No. I'll turn the air off. It will keep nicely. It looks so peaceful here. And it will give us something to come home to."

The Man From P.I.G

"This is the end of our troubles, Governor, it sure is!" the farmer said. The rustic next to him nodded agreement and was moved enough by the thought to lift the hat from his head, shout "Yipppee" once, then clamp it back on.

"Now, I can't positively promise anything," Governor Haydin said; but there was more than a hint of eagerness in his words, and he twirled his moustache with extraordinary exuberance. "Don't know any more about this than you do. We radioed for help, and the Patrol said they'd do something…"

"And now a starcruiser is in orbit up there and her tender is on the way down," the farmer broke in, finishing the Governor's sentence. "Sounds good enough for me. Help is on the way!"

The heavens boomed an answer to his words, and a spike of brilliant flame burned through the low-lying clouds above the field as the stubby form of the tender came into view. The crowd along the edge — almost the entire population of Trowbri City — burst into a ragged cheer. They restrained themselves as the ship rode its fiery exhaust down to the muddy field, settling in a cloud of stream, — but as soon as the jets flicked off, they surged forward to surround it.

"What's in there, Governor," someone asked, "a company of space commandos or suchlike?"

"The message didn't say — just asked for a landing clearance."

There was a hushed silence as the gangway ground out of its slot below the port and the end clattered down into the mud. The outer hatch swung open with the shrill whine of an electric motor, and a man stepped into the opening and looked down at the crowd.

"Hi," he said. Then he turned and waved inside. "C'mon out, you-all," he shouted, and he put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

His words evoked a chorus of high-pitched cries and squeals from inside the tender. Then out of the port and down the gangway swept a thundering wave of animals. Their backs — pink, black-and-white, and gray — bobbed up and down, and their hooves beat out a rumble of sound on the perforated metal.

"Pigs!" the Governor shouted, his angry voice rising over the chorus of porcine squeals. "Is there nothing but pigs aboard this ship?"

"There's me, sir," the man said, stopping in front of the Governor. "Wurber's my name, Bron Wurber, and these here are my animals. I'm mighty glad to meet you."

Governor Haydin's eyes burned a track up from the ground, slowly consuming every inch of the tall man who stood before him — taking in the high rubber boots; the coarse material of the crumpled trousers, — the heavy, stained folds of the once-red jacket; the wide, smiling face and clear blue eyes of the pig farmer. The Governor winced when he saw the bits of straw in the man's hair. He completely ignored Wurber's outstretched hand.

"What are you doing here?" Haydin demanded.