Atas permintaan dari kuncungs, gw bikin thread ini. Isinya kumpulan cerpen sci-fi (fiksi ilmiah) karya Isaac Asimov. Kalo ada yang mau ikutan posting cerpennya, ga nolak sama sekali lho

Post pertama ini sekaligus jadi indeksnya.

1. The Last Question
2. The Secret Sense
3. KID STUFF

Enjoy ya

"No doubt there is some nobility behind it all. It is a strange attribute of your race
that you can always find some altruistic motive for your actions."
Garth Jan bit his lip angrily. "You have no right to say that." For a moment he
thought of pleading worry over Fields' future peace of mind as a reason for silence, but
the latter’s mocking reference to "altruism" had rendered that impossible. A feeling of
anger crept over him gradually and that forced him to his decision.
There was no mistaking the note of frigid unfriendliness that entered his voice. "I’ll
explain by analogy." The Martian stared straight ahead of him as he spoke, eyes halfclosed.
"You have told me that I live in a world that is composed merely of shades of light
and dark. You try to describe a world of your own composed of infinite variety and
beauty. I listen but care little concerning it. I have never known it and never can know it.
One does not weep over the loss of what one has never owned.
"But—what if you were able to give me the ability to see color for five minutes?
What if, for five minutes, I reveled in wonders undreamed of? What if, after those five
minutes, I have to return it forever? Would those five minutes of paradise be worth a
lifetime of regret afterwards—a lifetime of dissatisfaction because of my own
shortcomings? Would it not have been the kinder act never to have told me of color in
the first place and so have removed its ever-present temptation?"
Fields had risen to his feet during the last part of the Martian’s speech and his eyes
opened wide in a wild surmise.
"Do you mean an Earthman could possess the Martian sense if so desired?"
"For five minutes in a lifetime," Garth Jan’s eyes grew dreamy, "and in those five
minutes sense—"
He came to a confused halt and glared angrily at his companion, "You know more
than is good for you. See that you don’t forget your promise."
He rose hastily and hobbled away as quickly as he could, leaning heavily upon the
cane. Lincoln Fields made no move to stop him. He merely sat there and thought.
The great height of the cavern shrouded the roof in misty obscurity in which, at
fixed intervals, there floated luminescent globes of radite. The air, heated by this
subterranean volcanic stratum, wafted past gently. Before Lincoln Fields stretched the
wide, paved avenue of the principal city of Mars, fading away into the distance.
He clumped awkwardly up to the entrance of the home of Garth Jan, the six-inchthick
layer of lead attached to each shoe a nuisance unending. Though it was still better
than the uncontrollable bounding Earth muscles brought about in this lighter gravity.
The Martian was surprised to see his friend of six months ago but not altogether
joyful. Fields was not slow to notice this but he merely smiled to himself. The opening
formalities passed, the conventional remarks were made, and the two seated themselves.
Fields crushed the cigarette in the ash-tray and sat upright suddenly serious. "I’ve
come to ask for those five minutes you claim you can give me! May I have them?"
"Is that a rhetorical question? It certainly doesn’t seem to require an answer."
Garth’s tone was openly contemptuous.
The Earthman considered the other thoughtfully. "Do you mind if I outline my
position in a few words?"
The Martin smiled indifferently. "It won’t make any difference," he said.
"I’ll take my chance on that. The situation is this: I’ve been born and reared in the
lap of luxury and have been most disgustingly spoiled. I’ve never yet had a reasonable
desire that I have not been able to fulfill, and I don’t know what it means not to get what I
want. Do you see?"
There was no answer and he continued, "I have found my happiness in beautiful
sights, beautiful words, and beautiful sounds. I have made a cult of beauty. In a word, I
am an aesthete."
"Most interesting," the Martian’s stony expression did not change a whit, "but
what bearing has all this on the problem at hand?"
"Just this: You speak of a new form of beauty—a form unknown to me at present
and entirely inconceivable even, but one which could be known if you so wished. The
notion attracts me. It more than attracts me—it makes its demands of me. Again I remind
you that when a notion begins to make demands of me, I yield—I always have."
"You are not the master in this case," reminded Garth Jan.
"It is crude of me to remind you of this, but you cannot force me, you know. Your
words, in fact, are almost offensive in their implications."
"I am glad you said that, for it allows me to be crude in my turn without offending
my conscience."
Garth Jan’s only reply to this was a self-confident grimace.
"I make my demand of you," said Fields, slowly, "in the name of gratitude."
"Gratitude?" the Martian started violently.
Fields grinned broadly, "It’s an appeal no honorable Martian can refuse—by your
own ethics. You owe me gratitude, now, because it was through me you gained entrance
into the houses of the greatest and most honorable men of Earth."
"I know that," Garth Jan flushed angrily. "You are impolite to remind me of it."
"I have no choice. You acknowledged the gratitude you owe me in actual words,
back on Earth. I demand the chance to possess this mysterious sense you keep so
secret—in the name of this acknowledged gratitude. Can you refuse now?"
"You know I can't," was the gloomy response. "I hesitated only for your own sake."
The Martian rose and held out his hand gravely, "You have me by the neck,
Lincoln. It is done. Afterwards, though, I owe you nothing more. This will pay my debt of
gratitude.
Agreed?"
"Agreed!" The two shook hands and Lincoln Fields continued in an entirely
different tone. "We’re still friends, though, aren’t we? This little altercation won’t spoil
things?"
"I hope not. Come! Join me at the evening meal and we can discuss the time and
place of your—er—five minutes."
Lincoln Fields tried hard to down the faint nervousness that filled him as he waited
in Garth Jan’s private "concert"-room.
He felt a sudden desire to laugh as the thought came to him that he felt exactly as
he usually did in a dentist’s waiting room.
He lit his tenth cigarette, puffed twice and threw it away, "You’re doing this very
elaborately, Garth."
The Martian shrugged, "You have only five minutes so I might as well see to it that
they are put to the best possible use. You’re going to 'hear' part of a portwem, which is
to our sense what a great symphony (is that the word?) is to sound."
"Have we much longer to wait? The suspense, to be trite, is terrible."
"We’re waiting for Novi Lon, who is to play the portwem, and for Done Vol. my
private physician. They’ll be along soon."
Fields wandered onto the low dais that occupied the center of the room and
regarded the intricate mechanism thereupon with curious interest. The fore-part was
encased in gleaming aluminum leaving exposed only seven tiers of shining black knobs
above and five large white pedals below. Behind, however, it lay open, and within there
ran crossings and recrossings of finer wires in incredibly complicated paths.
"A curious thing, this," remarked the Earthman.
The Martian joined him on the dais, "It’s an expensive instrument. It cost me ten
thousand Martian credits."
"How does it work?"
"Not so differently from a Terrestrial piano. Each of the upper knobs controls a
different electric circuit. Singly and together an expert portwem player could, by
manipulating the knobs, form any conceivable pattern of electric current. The pedals
below control the strength of the current."
Fields nodded absently and ran his fingers over the knobs at random. Idly, he
noticed the small galvanometer located just above the keys kick violently each time he
depressed a knob. Aside from that, he sensed nothing.
"Is the instrument really playing?"
The Martian smiled, "Yes, it is. And a set of unbelievably atrocious discords too."
He took a seat before the instrument and with a murmured "Here’s howl" his
fingers skimmed rapidly and accurately over the gleaming buttons.
The sound of a reedy Martian voice crying out in strident accents broke in upon
him, and Garth Jan ceased in sudden embarrassment. "This is Novi Lon," he said hastily
to Fields, "As usual, he does not like my playing."
Fields rose to meet the newcomer. He was bent of shoulder and evidently of great
age. A fine tracing of wrinkles, especially about eyes and mouth, covered his face.
"So this is the young Earthman," he cried, in strongly accented English. "I
disapprove your rashness but sympathize with your desire to attend a portwem. It is a
great pity you can own our sense for no more than five minutes. Without it no one can
truly be said to live."
Garth Jan laughed, "He exaggerates, Lincoln. He’s one of the greatest musicians
of Mars, and thinks anyone doomed to damnation who would not rather attend a
portwem than breathe." He hugged the older man warmly, "He was my teacher in my
youth and many were the long hours in which he struggled to teach me the proper
combination of circuits."
"And I have failed after all, you dunce," snapped the old Martian. "I heard your
attempt at playing as I entered. You still have not learned the proper fortgass
combination. You were desecrating the soul of the great Bar Damn. My pupil! Bah! It is a
disgrace!"
The entrance of the third Martian, Done Vol, prevented Novi Lon from continuing
his tirade. Garth, glad of the reprieve, approached the physician hastily.
"Is all ready?"
"Yes," growled Vol surily, "and a particularly uninteresting experiment this will be.

... bersambung

WOWW Ada lagi!!! Muacihhh!!!!!! 

"Of course, incidents will take place. Once a huge, barbaric vessel hit us dead
center and it took all the psychic energy of the entire population to give the island the
appearance of an iceberg. The Titanic, I believe, was the name printed on the vessel. And
nowadays there are planes flying overhead all the time and sometimes there are crashes.
We picked up cases of canned milk once. That’s when I tasted it."
Prentiss said, "Well, then, damn it, why aren’t you still on Avalon? Why did you
leave?"
"I was ordered to leave," said the elf angrily. "The fools."
"Oh?"
"You know how it is when you’re a little different. I’m not like the rest of them and
the poor tradition-ridden fools resented it. They were jealous. That’s the best explanation.
Jealous!"
"How are you different?"
"Hand me that light bulb," said the elf. "Oh, just unscrew it. You don’t need a
reading lamp in the daytime."
With a quiver of repulsion, Prentiss did as he was told and passed the object into
the little hands of the elf. Carefully, the elf, with fingers so thin and wiry that they looked
like tendrils, touched the bottom and side of the brass base.
Feebly the filament in the bulb reddened.
"Good God," said Prentiss.
"That," said the elf proudly, "is my great talent. I told you that we elves couldn’t
adapt psychic energy to electronics. Well, I can! I’m not just an ordinary elf. I’m a mutant!
A super-elf! I’m the next stage in elfin evolution. This light is due just to the activity of my
own mind, you know. Now watch when I use yours as a focus."
As he said that, the bulb’s filament grew white hot and painful to look at, while a
vague and not unpleasant tickling sensation entered Prentiss' skull.
The lamp went out and the elf put the bulb on the desk behind the typewriter.
"I haven’t tried," said the elf proudly, "but I suspect I can fission uranium too."
"But look here, lighting a bulb takes energy. You can’t just hold it-"
"I’ve told you about psychic energy. Great Oberon, man-thing, try to understand."
Prentiss felt increasingly uneasy; he said cautiously, "What do you intend doing
with this gift of yours?"
"Go back to Avalon, of course. I should let those fools go to their doom, but an elf
does have a certain patriotism, even if he is a coleopteron."
"A what?"
"We elves are not all of a species, you know. I’m of beetle descent. See?"
He rose to his feet and, standing on the desk, turned his back to Prentiss. What
had seemed merely a shining black cuticle suddenly split and lifted. From underneath,
two filmy, veined wings fluttered out.
"Oh, you can fly," said Prentiss.
"You’re very foolish," said the elf contemptuously, "not to realize I’m too large for
flight. But they are attractive, aren’t they? How do you like the iridescence? The
lepidoptera have disgusting wings in comparison. They’re gaudy and indelicate. What’s
more they’re always sticking out."
"The lepidoptera?" Prentiss felt hopelessly confused.
"The butterfly clans. They’re the proud ones. They were always letting humans see
them so they could be admired. Very petty minds in a way. And that’s why your legends
always give fairies butterfly wings instead of beetle wings which are much more
diaphanously beautiful. We’ll give the lepidoptera what for when we get back, you and I."
"Now hold on-"
"Must think," said the elf, swaying back and forth in what looked like elfin ecstasy,
"our nightly revels on the fairy green will be a blaze of sparkling light from curlicues of
neon tubing. We can cut loose the swarms of wasps we’ve got hitched to our flying
wagons and install internal-combustion motors instead. We can stop this business of
curling up on leaves when it’s time to sleep and build factories to manufacture decent
mattresses. I tell you, we’ll live. . . And the rest of them will eat dirt for having ordered
me out."
"But I can’t go with you," bleated Prentiss. "I have responsibilities. I have a wife
and kid. You wouldn’t take a man away from his-his larva, would you?"
"I’m not cruel," said the elf. He turned his eyes full on Prentiss. "I have an elfin
soul. Still, what choice have I? I must have a man-brain for focusing purposes or I will
accomplish nothing; and not all man-brains are suitable."
"Why not?"
"Great Oberon, creature. A man-brain isn’t a passive thing of wood and stone. It
must co-operate in order to be useful. And it can only co-operate by being fully aware of
our own elfin ability to manipulate it. I can use your brain, for instance, but your wife’s
would be useless to me. It would take her years to understand who and what I am."
Prentiss said, "This is a damned insult. Are you telling me I believe in fairies? I’ll
have you know I’m a complete rationalist."
"Are you? When I first revealed myself to you, you had a few feeble thoughts
about dreams and hallucinations but you talked to me, you accepted me. Your wife would
have screamed and gone into hysterics."
Prentiss was silent. He could think of no answer.
"That’s the trouble," said the elf despondently. "Practically all you humans have
forgotten about us since we left you. Your minds have closed; grown useless. To be sure,
your larvae believe in your legends about the 'little folk,' but their brains are undeveloped
and useful only for simple processes. When they mature, they lose belief. Frankly, I don’t
know what I would do if it weren’t for you fantasy writers."
"What do you mean we fantasy writers?"
"You are the few remaining adults who believe in the insect folk. You, Prentiss,
most of all. You’ve been a fantasy writer for twenty years."
"You’re mad. I don’t believe the things I write."
"You have to. You can’t help it. I mean, while you’re actually writing, you take the
subject matter seriously. After a while your mind is just naturally cultivated into usefulness.
. . But why argue. I have used you. You saw the light bulb brighten. So you see you must
come with me."
"But I won’t." Prentiss set his limbs stubbornly. "Can you make me against my
will?"
"I could, but I might damage you, and I wouldn’t want that. Suppose we say this. If
you don’t agree to come, I could focus a current of high-voltage electricity through your
wife. It would be a revolting thing to have to do, but I understand your own people
execute enemies of the state in that fashion, so that you would probably find the
punishment less horrible than I do. I wouldn’t want to seem brutal even to a man-thing."
Prentiss grew conscious of the perspiration matting the short hairs on his temple.
"Wait," he said, "don’t do anything like that. Let’s talk it over."
The elf shot out his filmy wings, fluttered them and returned them to their case.
"Talk, talk, talk. It’s tiring. Surely you have milk in the house. You’re not a very thoughtful
host or you would have offered me refreshment before this."
Prentiss tried to bury the thought that came to him, to push it as far below the
outer skin of his mind as he could. He said casually, "I have something better than milk.
Here, I’ll get it for you."
"Stay where you are. Call to your wife. She’ll bring it."
"But I don’t want her to see you. It would frighten her."
The elf said, "You need feel no concern. I’ll handle her so that she won’t be the
least disturbed."
Prentiss lifted an arm.
The elf said, "Any attack you make on me will be far slower than the bolt of
electricity that will strike your wife."
Prentiss' arm dropped. He stepped to the door of his study.
"Blanche!" he called down the stairs.
Blanche was just visible in the living room, sitting woodenly in the armchair near
the bookcase. She seemed to be asleep, open-eyed.
Prentiss turned to the elf. "Something’s wrong with her."
"She’s just in a state of sedation. She’ll hear you. Tell her what to do."
"Blanche!" he called again. "Bring the container of eggnog and a small glass, will
you?"
With no sign of animation other than that of bare movement, Blanche rose and
disappeared from view.
"What is eggnog?" asked the elf.
Prentiss attempted enthusiasm. "It is a compound of milk, sugar and eggs beaten
to a delightful consistency. Milk alone is poor staff compared to it."
Blanche entered with the eggnog. Her pretty face was expressionless. Her eyes
turned toward the elf but lightened with no realization of the significance of the sight.
"Here, Jan," she said, and sat down in the old, leather-covered chair by the
window, hands falling loosely to her lap.
Prentiss watched her uneasily for a moment. "Are you going to keep her here?"
"She’ll be easier to control. . . Well, aren’t you going to offer me the eggnog?"
"Oh, sure. Here!"
He poured the thick white liquid into the cocktail glass. He had prepared five milk
bottles of it two nights before for the boys of the New York Fantasy Association and it
had been mixed with a lavish hand, since fantasy writers notoriously like it so.
The elf’s antennae trembled violently.
"A heavenly aroma," he muttered.
He wrapped the ends of his thin arms about the stem of the small glass and lifted it
to his mouth. The liquid’s level sank. When half was gone, he put it down and sighed,
"Oh, the loss to my people. What a creation! What a thing to exist! Our histories tell us
that in ancient days an occasional lucky sprite managed to take the place of a man-larva
at birth so that he might draw off the liquid fresh-made. I wonder if even those ever
experienced anything like this."
Prentiss said with a touch of professional interest, "That’s the idea behind this
business of changelings, is it?"
"Of course. The female man-creature has a great gift. Why not take advantage of
it?" The elf turned his eyes upon the rise and fall of Blanche’s bosom and sighed again.
Prentiss said (not too eager, now; don’t give it away), "Go ahead. Drink all you
want."