The Project Gutenberg EBook of Keep Your Shape, by Robert Sheckley

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Title: Keep Your Shape

Author: Robert Sheckley

Illustrator: Vidmer

Release Date: May 12, 2010 [EBook #32346]

[Last updated: August 22, 2012]

Language: English

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Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction
November 1953. Extensive research did not uncover
any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
KEEP YOUR SHAPE
 By ROBERT SHECKLEY

Illustrated by VIDMER

Only a race as incredibly elastic as the Grom could

have a single rule of war:

P
id the Pilot slowed the ship almost to a standstill, and peered anxiously at the
green planet below.
Even without instruments, there was no mistaking it. Third from its sun, it was
the only planet in this system capable of sustaining life. Peacefully it swam
beneath its gauze of clouds.
It looked very innocent. And yet, twenty previous Grom expeditions had set out
to prepare this planet for invasion—and vanished utterly, without a word.
Pid hesitated only a moment, before starting irrevocably down. There was no
point in hovering and worrying. He and his two crewmen were as ready now as
they would ever be. Their compact Displacers were stored in body pouches,
inactive but ready.
Pid wanted to say something to his crew, but wasn't sure how to put it.
The crew waited. Ilg the Radioman had sent the final message to the Grom
planet. Ger the Detector read sixteen dials at once, and reported, "No sign of
alien activity." His body surfaces flowed carelessly.
 N
oticing the flow, Pid knew what to say to his crew. Ever since they had left
Grom, shape-discipline had been disgustingly lax. The Invasion Chief had
warned him; but still, he had to do something about it. It was his duty, since
lower castes such as Radiomen and Detectors were notoriously prone to
Shapelessness.
"A lot of hopes are resting on this expedition," he began slowly. "We're a long
way from home now."
Ger the Detector nodded. Ilg the Radioman flowed out of his prescribed shape
and molded himself comfortably to a wall.
"However," Pid said sternly, "distance is no excuse for promiscuous
Shapelessness."
Ilg flowed hastily back into proper Radioman's shape.
"Exotic forms will undoubtedly be called for," Pid went on. "And for that we
have a special dispensation. But remember—any shape not assumed strictly in
the line of duty is a foul, lawless device of The Shapeless One!"
Ger's body surfaces abruptly stopped flowing.
"That's all," Pid said, and flowed into his controls. The ship started down, so
smoothly co-ordinated that Pid felt a glow of pride.
They were good workers, he decided. He just couldn't expect them to be as
shape-conscious as a high-caste Pilot. Even the Invasion Chief had told him that.
"Pid," the Invasion Chief had said at their last interview, "we need this planet
desperately."
"Yes, sir," Pid had said, standing at full attention, never quivering from Optimum
Pilot's Shape.
"One of you," the Chief said heavily, "must get through and set up a Displacer
near an atomic power source. The army will be standing by at this end, ready to
step through."
"We'll do it, sir," Pid said.
"This expedition has to succeed," the Chief said, and his features blurred
momentarily from sheer fatigue. "In strictest confidence, there's considerable
unrest on Grom. The Miner caste is on strike, for instance. They want a new
digging shape. Say the old one is inefficient."
Pid looked properly indignant. The Mining Shape had been set down by the
Ancients fifty thousand years ago, together with the rest of the basic shapes. And
now these upstarts wanted to change it!
"That's not all," the Chief told him. "We've uncovered a new Cult of
Shapelessness. Picked up almost eight thousand Grom, and I don't know how
many more we missed."
Pid knew that Shapelessness was a lure of The Shapeless One, the greatest evil
that the Grom mind could conceive of. But why, he wondered, did so many
Grom fall for His lures?

T
he Chief guessed his question. "Pid," he said, "I suppose it's difficult for you to
understand. Do you enjoy Piloting?"
"Yes, sir," Pid said simply. Enjoy Piloting! It was his entire life! Without a ship,
he was nothing.
"Not all Grom feel that way," the Chief said. "I don't understand it either. All my
ancestors have been Invasion Chiefs, back to the beginning of time. So of course
I want to be an Invasion Chief. It's only natural, as well as lawful. But the lower
castes don't feel that way." The Chief shook his body sadly. "I've told you this
for a reason. We Grom need more room. This unrest is caused purely by
crowding. All our psychologists say so. Another planet to expand into will cure
everything. So we're counting on you, Pid."
"Yes, sir," Pid said, with a glow of pride.
The Chief rose to end the interview. Then he changed his mind and sat down
again.
"You'll have to watch your crew," he said. "They're loyal, no doubt, but low-
caste. And you know the lower castes."
Pid did indeed.
"Ger, your Detector, is suspected of harboring Alterationist tendencies. He was
once fined for assuming a quasi-Hunter shape. Ilg has never had any definite
charge brought against him. But I hear that he remains immobile for suspiciously
long periods of time. Possibly, he fancies himself a Thinker."
"But, sir," Pid protested. "If they are even slightly tainted with Alterationism or
Shapelessness, why send them on this expedition?"
The Chief hesitated before answering. "There are plenty of Grom I could trust,"
he said slowly. "But those two have certain qualities of resourcefulness and
imagination that will be needed on this expedition." He sighed. "I really don't
understand why those qualities are usually linked with Shapelessness."
"Yes, sir," Pid said.
"Just watch them."
"Yes, sir," Pid said again, and saluted, realizing that the interview was at an end.
In his body pouch he felt the dormant Displacer, ready to transform the enemy's
power source into a bridge across space for the Grom hordes.
"Good luck," the chief said. "I'm sure you'll need it."

T
he ship dropped silently toward the surface of the enemy planet. Ger the
Detector analyzed the clouds below, and fed data into the Camouflage Unit. The
Unit went to work. Soon the ship looked, to all outward appearances, like a
cirrus formation.
Pid allowed the ship to drift slowly toward the surface of the mystery planet. He
was in Optimum Pilot's Shape now, the most efficient of the four shapes alloted
to the Pilot caste. Blind, deaf and dumb, an extension of his controls, all his
attention was directed toward matching the velocities of the high-flying clouds,
staying among them, becoming a part of them.
Ger remained rigidly in one of the two shapes alloted to Detectors. He fed data
into the Camouflage Unit, and the descending ship slowly altered into an alto-
cumulus.
There was no sign of activity from the enemy planet.
Ilg located an atomic power source, and fed the data to Pid. The Pilot altered
course. He had reached the lowest level of clouds, barely a mile above the
surface of the planet. Now his ship looked like a fat, fleecy cumulus.
And still there was no sign of alarm. The unknown fate that had overtaken
twenty previous expeditions still had not showed itself.
Dusk crept across the face of the planet as Pid maneuvered near the atomic
power installation. He avoided the surrounding homes and hovered over a clump
of woods.
Darkness fell, and the green planet's lone moon was veiled in clouds.
One cloud floated lower.
And landed.
"Quick, everyone out!" Pid shouted, detaching himself from the ship's controls.
He assumed the Pilot's Shape best suited for running, and raced out the hatch.
Ger and Ilg hurried after him. They stopped fifty yards from the ship, and
waited.
Inside the ship a little-used circuit closed. There was a silent shudder, and the
ship began to melt. Plastic dissolved, metal crumpled. Soon the ship was a great
pile of junk, and still the process went on. Big fragments broke into smaller
fragments, and split, and split again.
Pid felt suddenly helpless, watching his ship scuttle itself. He was a Pilot, of the
Pilot caste. His father had been a Pilot, and his father before him, stretching back
to the hazy past when the Grom had first constructed ships. He had spent his
entire childhood around ships, his entire manhood flying them.
Now, shipless, he was naked in an alien world.

I
n a few minutes there was only a mound of dust to show where the ship had
been. The night wind scattered it through the forest. And then there was nothing
at all.
They waited. Nothing happened. The wind sighed and the trees creaked.
Squirrels chirped, and birds stirred in their nests. An acorn fell to the ground.
Pid heaved a sigh of relief and sat down. The twenty-first Grom expedition had
landed safely.
There was nothing to be done until morning, so Pid began to make plans. They
had landed as close to the atomic power installation as they dared. Now they
would have to get closer. Somehow, one of them had to get very near the reactor
room, in order to activate the Displacer.
Difficult. But Pid felt certain of success. After all, the Grom were strong on
ingenuity.
Strong on ingenuity, he thought bitterly, but terribly short of radioactives. That
was another reason why this expedition was so important. There was little
radioactive fuel left, on any of the Grom worlds. Ages ago, the Grom had spent
their store of radioactives in spreading throughout their neighboring worlds,
occupying the ones that they could live on.
Now, colonization barely kept up with the mounting birthrate. New worlds were
constantly needed.
This particular world, discovered in a scouting expedition, was needed. It suited
the Grom perfectly. But it was too far away. They didn't have enough fuel to
mount a conquering space fleet.
Luckily, there was another way. A better way.
Over the centuries, the Grom scientists had developed the Displacer. A triumph
of Identity Engineering, the Displacer allowed mass to be moved instantaneously
between any two linked points.
One end was set up at Grom's sole atomic energy plant. The other end had to be
placed in proximity to another atomic power source, and activated. Diverted
power then flowed through both ends, was modified, and modified again.
Then, through the miracle of Identity Engineering, the Grom could step through
from planet to planet; or pour through in a great, overwhelming wave.
It was quite simple.
But twenty expeditions had failed to set up the Earth-end Displacer.
What had happened to them was not known.
For no Grom ship had ever returned to tell.

B
efore dawn they crept through the woods, taking on the coloration of the plants
around them. Their Displacers pulsed feebly, sensing the nearness of atomic
energy.
A tiny, four-legged creature darted in front of them. Instantly, Ger grew four legs
and a long, streamlined body and gave chase.
"Ger! Come back here!" Pid howled at the Detector, throwing caution to the
winds.
Ger overtook the animal and knocked it down. He tried to bite it, but he had
neglected to grow teeth. The animal jumped free, and vanished into the
underbrush. Ger thrust out a set of teeth and bunched his muscles for another
leap.
"Ger!"
Reluctantly, the Detector turned away. He loped silently back to Pid.
"I was hungry," he said.
"You were not," Pid said sternly.
"Was," Ger mumbled, writhing with embarrassment.
Pid remembered what the Chief had told him. Ger certainly did have Hunter
tendencies. He would have to watch him more closely.
"We'll have no more of that," Pid said. "Remember—the lure of Exotic Shapes is
not sanctioned. Be content with the shape you were born to."
Ger nodded, and melted back into the underbrush. They moved on.
At the extreme edge of the woods they could observe the atomic energy
installation. Pid disguised himself as a clump of shrubbery, and Ger formed
himself into an old log. Ilg, after a moment's thought, became a young oak.
The installation was in the form of a long, low building, surrounded by a metal
fence. There was a gate, and guards in front of it.
The first job, Pid thought, was to get past that gate. He began to consider ways
and means.
From the fragmentary reports of the survey parties, Pid knew that, in some ways,
this race of Men were like the Grom. They had pets, as the Grom did, and homes
and children, and a culture. The inhabitants were skilled mechanically, as were
the Grom.
But there were terrific differences, also. The Men were of fixed and immutable
form, like stones or trees. And to compensate, their planet boasted a fantastic
array of species, types and kinds. This was completely unlike Grom, which had
only eight distinct forms of animal life.
And evidently, the Men were skilled at detecting invaders, Pid thought. He
wished he knew how the other expeditions had failed. It would make his job
much easier.

A
Man lurched past them on two incredibly stiff legs. Rigidity was evident in his
every move. Without looking, he hurried past.
"I know," Ger said, after the creature had moved away. "I'll disguise myself as a
Man, walk through the gate to the reactor room, and activate my Displacer."
"You can't speak their language," Pid pointed out.
"I won't speak at all. I'll ignore them. Look." Quickly Ger shaped himself into a
Man.
"That's not bad," Pid said.
Ger tried a few practice steps, copying the bumpy walk of the Man.
"But I'm afraid it won't work," Pid said.
"It's perfectly logical," Ger pointed out.
"I know. Therefore the other expeditions must have tried it. And none of them
came back."
There was no arguing that. Ger flowed back into the shape of a log. "What,
then?" he asked.
"Let me think," Pid said.
Another creature lurched past, on four legs instead of two. Pid recognized it as a
Dog, a pet of Man. He watched it carefully.
The Dog ambled to the gate, head down, in no particular hurry. It walked
through, unchallenged, and lay down in the grass.
"H'm," Pid said.
They watched. One of the Men walked past, and touched the Dog on the head.
The Dog stuck out its tongue and rolled over on its side.
"I can do that," Ger said excitedly. He started to flow into the shape of a Dog.
"No, wait," Pid said. "We'll spend the rest of the day thinking it over. This is too
important to rush into."
Ger subsided sulkily.
"Come on, let's move back," Pid said. He and Ger started into the woods. Then
he remembered Ilg.
"Ilg?" he called softly.
There was no answer.
"Ilg!"
"What? Oh, yes," an oak tree said, and melted into a bush. "Sorry. What were
you saying?"
"We're moving back," Pid said. "Were you, by any chance, Thinking?"
"Oh, no," Ilg assured him. "Just resting."
Pid let it go at that. There was too much else to worry about.

T
hey discussed it for the rest of the day, hidden in the deepest part of the woods.
The only alternatives seemed to be Man or Dog. A Tree couldn't walk past the
gates, since that was not in the nature of trees. Nor could anything else, and
escape notice.
Going as a Man seemed too risky. They decided that Ger would sally out in the
morning as a Dog.
"Now get some sleep," Pid said.
Obediently his two crewmen flattened out, going immediately Shapeless. But
Pid had a more difficult time.
Everything looked too easy. Why wasn't the atomic installation better guarded?
Certainly the Men must have learned something from the expeditions they had
captured in the past. Or had they killed them without asking any questions?
You couldn't tell what an alien would do.
Was that open gate a trap?
Wearily he flowed into a comfortable position on the lumpy ground. Then he
pulled himself together hastily.
He had gone Shapeless!
Comfort was not in the line of duty, he reminded himself, and firmly took a
Pilot's Shape.
But a Pilot's Shape wasn't constructed for sleeping on damp, bumpy ground. Pid
spent a restless night, thinking of ships, and wishing he were flying one.
He awoke in the morning tired and ill-tempered. He nudged Ger.
"Let's get this over with," he said.
Ger flowed gaily to his feet.
"Come on, Ilg," Pid said angrily, looking around. "Wake up."
There was no reply.
"Ilg!" he called.
Still there was no reply.
"Help me look for him," Pid said to Ger. "He must be around here somewhere."
Together they tested every bush, tree, log and shrub in the vicinity. But none of
them was Ilg.
Pid began to feel a cold panic run through him. What could have happened to the
Radioman?
"Perhaps he decided to go through the gate on his own," Ger suggested.
[original: Ilg suggested (n. of transcriber)]
Pid considered the possibility. It seemed unlikely. Ilg had never shown much
initiative. He had always been content to follow orders.
They waited. But midday came, and there was still no sign of Ilg.
"We can't wait any longer," Pid said, and they started through the woods. Pid
wondered if Ilg had tried to get through the gates on his own. Those quiet types
often concealed a foolhardy streak.
But there was nothing to show that Ilg had been successful. He would have to
assume that the Radioman was dead, or captured by the Men.
That left two of them to activate a Displacer.
And he still didn't know what had happened to the other expeditions.

A
t the edge of the woods, Ger turned himself into a facsimile of a Dog. Pid
inspected him carefully.
"A little less tail," he said.
Ger shortened his tail.
"More ears."
Ger lengthened his ears,
"Now even them up."
They became even.
Pid inspected the finished product. As far as he could tell, Ger was perfect, from
the tip of his tail to his wet, black nose.
"Good luck," Pid said.
"Thanks." Cautiously Ger moved out of the woods, walking in the lurching style
of Dogs and Men. At the gate the guard called to him. Pid held his breath.
Ger walked past the Man, ignoring him. The Man started to walk over. Ger
broke into a run.
Pid shaped a pair of strong legs for himself, ready to dash if Ger was caught.
But the guard turned back to his gate. Ger stopped running immediately, and
strolled quietly toward the main door of the building.
Pid dissolved his legs with a sigh of relief ... and then tensed again.
The main door was closed!
Pid hoped the Radioman wouldn't try to open it. That was not in the nature of
Dogs.
As he watched, another Dog came running toward Ger. Ger backed away from
him. The Dog approached and sniffed. Ger sniffed back.
Then both of them ran around the building.
That was clever, Pid thought. There was bound to be a door in the rear.
He glanced up at the afternoon sun. As soon as the Displacer was activated, the
Grom armies would begin to pour through. By the time the Men recovered from
the shock, a million or more Grom troops would be here, weapons and all. With
more following.
The day passed slowly, and nothing happened.
Nervously Pid watched the front of the plant. It shouldn't be taking so long, if
Ger were successful.
Late into the night he waited. Men walked in and out of the installation, and
Dogs barked around the gates. But Ger did not appear.
Ger had failed. Ilg was gone. Only he was left.
And still he didn't know what had happened.

B
y morning, Pid was in complete despair. He knew that the twenty-first Grom
expedition to this planet was near the point of complete failure. Now it was all
up to him.
He saw that workers were arriving in great number, rushing through the gates.
He decided to take advantage of the apparent confusion, and started to shape
himself into a Man.
A Dog walked past the woods where he was hiding.
"Hello," the Dog said.
It was Ger!
"What happened?" Pid asked, with a sigh of relief. "Why were you so long?
Couldn't you get in?"
"I don't know," Ger said, wagging his tail. "I didn't try."
Pid was speechless.
"I went hunting," Ger said complacently. "This form is ideal for Hunting, you
know. I went out the rear gate with another Dog."
"But the expedition—your duty—"
"I changed my mind," Ger told him. "You know, Pilot, I never wanted to be a
Detector."
"But you were born a Detector!"
"That's true," Ger said. "But it doesn't help. I always wanted to be a Hunter."
Pid shook his entire body in annoyance. "You can't," he said, very slowly, as one
would explain to a Gromling. "The Hunter shape is forbidden to you."
"Not here it isn't," Ger said, still wagging his tail.
"Let's have no more of this," Pid said angrily. "Get into that installation and set
up your Displacer. I'll try to overlook this heresy."
"No," Ger said. "I don't want the Grom here. They'd ruin it for the rest of us."
"He's right," a nearby oak tree said.
"Ilg!" Pid gasped. "Where are you?"

B
ranches stirred. "I'm right here," Ilg said. "I've been Thinking."
"But—your caste—"
"Pilot," Ger said sadly, "why don't you wake up? Most of the people on Grom
are miserable. Only custom makes us take the caste-shape of our ancestors."
"Pilot," Ilg said, "all Grom are born Shapeless!"
"And being born Shapeless, all Grom should have Freedom of Shape," Ger said.
"Exactly," Ilg said. "But he'll never understand. Now excuse me. I want to
Think." And the oak tree was silent.
Pid laughed humorlessly. "The Men will kill you off," he said. "Just as they
killed off all the other expeditions."
"No one from Grom has been killed," Ger told him. "The other expeditions are
right here."
"Alive?"
"Certainly. The Men don't even know we exist. That Dog I was Hunting with is a
Grom from the twelfth expedition. There are hundreds of us here, Pilot. We like
it."
Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in
caste-consciousness. But this was preposterous!
This planet's secret menace was—freedom!
"Join us, Pilot," Ger said. "We've got a paradise here. Do you know how many
species there are on this planet? An uncountable number! There's a shape to suit
every need!"
Pid ignored them. Traitors!
He'd do the job all by himself.
So Men were unaware of the presence of the Grom. Getting near the reactor
might not be so difficult after all. The others had failed in their duty because they
were of the lower castes, weak and irresponsible. Even the Pilots among them
must have been secretly sympathetic to the Cult of Shapelessness the Chief had
mentioned, or the alien planet could never have swayed them.
What shape to assume for his attempt?
Pid considered.
A Dog might be best. Evidently Dogs could wander pretty much where they
wished. If something went wrong, Pid could change his shape to meet the
occasion.
"The Supreme Council will take care of all of you," he snarled, and shaped
himself into a small brown Dog. "I'm going to set up the Displacer myself."
He studied himself for a moment, bared his teeth at Ger, and loped toward the
gate.
 H
e loped for about ten feet and stopped in utter horror.
The smells rushed at him from all directions. Smells in a profusion and variety
he had never dreamed existed. Smells that were harsh, sweet, sharp, heavy,
mysterious, overpowering. Smells that terrified. Alien and repulsive and
inescapable, the odors of Earth struck him like a blow.
He curled his lips and held his breath. He ran on for a few steps, and had to
breathe again. He almost choked.
He tried to remold his Dog-nostrils to be less sensitive. It didn't work. It
wouldn't, so long as he kept the Dog-shape. An attempt to modify his
metabolism didn't work either.
All this in the space of two or three seconds. He was rooted in his tracks,
fighting the smells, wondering what to do.
Then the noises hit him.
They were a constant and staggering roar, through which every tiniest whisper of
sound stood out clearly and distinct. Sounds upon sounds—more noise than he
had ever heard before at one time in his life. The woods behind him had
suddenly become a mad-house.
Utterly confused, he lost control and became Shapeless.
He half-ran, half-flowed into a nearby bush. There he re-Shaped, obliterating the
offending Dog ears and nostrils with vicious strokes of his thoughts.
The Dog-shape was out. Absolutely. Such appalling sharpness of senses might
be fine for a Hunter such as Ger—he probably gloried in them. But another
moment of such impressions would have driven Pid the Pilot mad.
What now? He lay in the bush and thought about it, while gradually his mind
threw off the last effects of the dizzying sensory assault.
He looked at the gate. The Men standing there evidently hadn't noticed his
fiasco. They were looking in another direction.
... a Man?
Well, it was worth a try.
 S
tudying the Men at the gate, Pid carefully shaped himself into a facsimile—a
synthesis, actually, embodying one characteristic of that, another of this.
He emerged from the side of the bush opposite the gate, on his hands and knees.
He sniffed the air, noting that the smells the Man-nostrils picked up weren't
unpleasant at all. In fact, some of them were decidedly otherwise. It had just
been the acuity of the Dog-nostrils, the number of smells they had detected and
the near-brilliance with which they had done so, that had shocked him.
Also, the sounds weren't half so devastating. Only relatively close sounds stood
out. All else was an undetailed whispering.
Evidently, Pid thought, it had been a long time since Men had been Hunters.
He tested his legs, standing up and taking a few clumsy steps. Thud of foot on
ground. Drag the other leg forward in a heavy arc. Thud. Rocking from side to
side, he marched back and forth behind the bush. His arms flapped as he sought
balance. His head wobbled on its neck, until he remembered to hold it up. Head
up, eyes down, he missed seeing a small rock. His heel turned on it. He sat
down, hard.
The ankle hurt. Pid curled his Man-lips and crawled back into the bush.
The Man-shape was too unspeakably clumsy. It was offensive to plod one step at
a time. Body held rigidly upright. Arms wobbling. There had been a deluge of
sense-impressions in the Dog-shape; there was dull, stiff, half-alive inadequacy
to the Man-shape.
Besides, it was dangerous, now that Pid thought it over, as well as distasteful. He
couldn't control it properly. It wouldn't look right. Someone might question him.
There was too much about Men he didn't—couldn't—know. The planting of the
Displacer was too important a thing for him to fumble again. Only luck had kept
him from being seen during the sensory onslaught.
The Displacer in his body pouch pulsed and tugged, urging him to be on his way
toward the distant reactor room.
Grimly, Pid let out the last breath he had taken with his Man-lungs, and
dissolved the lungs.
What shape to take?
Again he studied the gate, the Men standing beside it, the building beyond in
which was the all-important reactor.
A small shape was needed. A fast one. An unobtrusive one.
He lay and thought.
The bush rustled above him. A small brown shape had fluttered down to light on
a twig. It hopped to another twig, twittering. Then it fluttered off in a flash, and
was gone.
That, Pid thought, was it.

A
Sparrow that was not a Sparrow rose from the bush a few moments later. An
observer would have seen it circle the bush, diving, hedgehopping, even looping,
as if practicing all maneuvers possible to Sparrows.
Pid tensed his shoulder muscles, inclined his wings. He slipped off to the right,
approached the bush at what seemed breakneck speed, though he knew this was
only because of his small size. At the last second he lifted his tail. Not quite
quickly enough. He swooped up and over the top of the bush, but his legs
brushed the top leaves, his beak went down, and he stumbled in air for a few feet
back-forward.
He blinked beady eyes as if at a challenge. Back toward the bush at a fine clip,
again up and over. This time cleanly.
He chose a tree. Zoomed into its network of branches, wove a web of flight,
working his way around and around the trunk, over and under branches that
flashed before him, through crotches with no more than a feather's-breath to
spare.
At last he rested on a low branch, and found himself chirping in delight.
The tree extruded a feeler from the branch he sat on, and touched his wings and
tail.
"Interesting," said the tree. "I'll have to try that shape some time."
Ilg.
"Traitor," hissed Pid, growing a mouth in his chest to hiss it, and then he did
something that caused Ilg to exclaim in outrage.
Pid flew out of the woods. Over the underbrush and across the open space
toward the gate.
This body would do the trick!
This body would do anything!
He rose, in a matter of a few Sparrow heartbeats, to an altitude of a hundred feet.
From here the gate, the Men, the building were small, sharp shapes against a
green-brown mat. Pid found that he could see not only with unaccustomed
clarity, but with a range of vision that astonished him. To right and to left he
could see far into the hazy blue of the sky, and the higher he rose the farther he
could see.
He rose higher.
The Displacer pulsed, reminding him of the job he had to do.

H
e stiffened his wings and glided, regretfully putting aside his desires to
experiment with this wonderful shape, at least for the present. After he planted
the Displacer, he would go off by himself for a while and do it just a little more
—somewhere where Ilg and Ger would not see him—before the Grom Army
arrived and the invasion began.
He felt a tiny twinge of guilt, as he circled. It was Evil to want to keep this alien
flying shape any longer than was absolutely necessary to the performance of his
duty. It was a device of the Shapeless One—
But what had Ilg said? All Grom are born Shapeless. It was true. Grom children
were amorphous, until old enough to be instructed in the caste-shape of their
ancestors.
Maybe it wasn't too great a sin to alter your Shape, then—just once in a long
while. After all, one must be fully aware of the nature of Evil in order to
meaningfully reject it.
He had fallen lower in circling. The Displacer pulse had strengthened. For some
reason it irritated him. He drove higher on strong wings, circled again. Air
rushed past him—a smooth, whispering flow, pierced by his beak, streaming
invisibly past his sharp eyes, moving along his body in tiny turbulences that
moved his feathers against his skin.
It occurred to him—or rather struck him with considerable force—that he was
satisfying a longing of his Pilot Caste that went far deeper than Piloting.
He drove powerfully with his wings, felt tonus across his back, shot forward and
up. He thought of the controls of his ship. He imagined flowing into them,
becoming part of them, as he had so often done—and for the first time in his life
the thought failed to excite him.
No machine could compare with this!
What he would give to have wings of his own!
... Get from my sight, Shapeless One!
The Displacer must be planted, activated. All Grom depended on him.
He eyed the building, far below. He would pass over it. The Displacer would tell
him which window to enter—which window was so near the reactor that he
could do his job before the Men even knew he was about.
He started to drop lower, and the Hawk struck.

I
t had been above him. His first inkling of danger was the sharp pain of talons in
his back, and the stunning blow of a beak across his head.
Dazed, he let his back go Shapeless. His body-substance flowed from the grasp
of the talons. He dropped a dozen feet and resumed Sparrow-shape, hearing an
astonished squawk from the attacker.
He banked, and looked up. The Hawk was eyeing him.
Talons spread again. The sharp beak gaped. The Hawk swooped.
Pid had to fight as a Bird, naturally. He was four hundred feet above the ground.
So he became an impossibly deadly Bird.
He grew to twice the size of the Hawk. He grew a foot-long beak with a double
razor's edge. He grew talons like six inch scimitars. His eyes gleamed a red
challenge.
The Hawk broke flight, squalling in alarm. Frantically, tail down and
widespread, it thundered its wings and came to a dead stop six feet from Pid.
Looking thoughtfully at Pid, it allowed itself to plummet. It fell a hundred feet,
spread its wings, stretched its neck and flew off so hastily that its wings became
blurs.
Pid saw no reason to pursue it.
Then, after a moment, he did.
He glided, keeping the Hawk in sight, thoughts racing, feeling the newness, the
power, the wonder of Freedom of Shape.
Freedom....
He did not want to give it up.
The bird-shape was wondrous. He would experiment with it. Later, he might tire
of it for a time and assume another—a crawling or running shape, or even a
swimming one. The possibilities for excitement, for adventure, for fulfilment
and simple sensual pleasure were endless!
Freedom of Shape was—obviously, now that you thought on it—the Grom
birthright. And the caste-system was artificial—obviously. A device for political
and priestly benefit—obviously.
Go away, Shapeless One ... this does not concern you.
He rose to a thousand feet, two thousand, three. The Displacer's pulse grew
feebler and finally vanished.
At four thousand feet he released it and watched it spin downward, vanish into a
cloud.
Then he set out after the Hawk, which was now only a dot on the horizon. He
would find out how the Hawk had broken flight as it had—skidded on air—he
wanted to do that too! There were so many things he wanted to learn about
flying. In a week, he thought, he should be able to duplicate all the skill that
millennia had evolved into Birds. Then his new life would really begin.
He became a torpedo-shape with huge wings, and sped after the Hawk.
ROBERT
SHECKLEY

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