Free Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick Page A

there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to find out—"
    The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.
    "Really, Captain," the wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."
    The room was silent.
    "What was that?" Franco said. "Just now."
    "The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke."
    They all looked at the wub.
    "What did it say? What did it say?"
    "It suggested we talk about other things."
    Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.
    "I wonder if there's a native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we should open it up and have a look."
    "Oh, goodness!" the wub cried. "Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?"
    Franco clenched his fists. "Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!"
    Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.
    "I beg your pardon," the wub said.
    "I don't think there's anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.
    The cook came in.
    "You wanted me, Captain?" he said. "What's this thing?"
    "This is a wub," Franco said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—"
    "I think we should have a talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues."
    The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.
    "Come into my office," the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.
    "I wonder what the outcome will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear."
    "Sure," Jones said. "Sure."
    T he   wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. "You must forgive me," it said. "I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—"
    The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
    "All right," he said. "Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?"
    The wub shrugged. "I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term."
    "And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"
    "No."
    "Then how do you do it?"
    "Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—"
    "My mind?"
    "I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—"
    "I see," the Captain said. "Telepathy. Of course."
    "We are a very old race," the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—"
    "How do you live?"
    "Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along."
    The wub eyed the Captain.
    "And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—"
    "So you read minds?" the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?"
    "A few odds and ends," the wub said absently, staring around the room. "A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—"
    "Indeed." The Captain nodded. "But to get back to the problem—"
    "Quite so. You spoke of dining on me.